


It's a Sin to Tell a Lie

by Ria92



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Alcohol dependency, Black Widow character perk (Fallout), Caesar's Legion hates Courier Six, Canon-Typical Violence, Chem Use, Courier Six is bad at gambling, Courier backstory, Disturbing Content, Drug Use, Explicit Language, F/M, Female Courier solves problems with sex, Gambling, Gang Rape, Hurt/Comfort, Independent New Vegas (Fallout), Legion slavery, Mojave Wasteland (Fallout), Mutual mistrust, New Vegas, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Picking up where they left off, Psychological Trauma, Rewrite, Speech-based Courier, Troubled Past, complicated romance, strange romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:34:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22977721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ria92/pseuds/Ria92
Summary: Weeks of drinking, gambling and screwing have left Courier Six - aka Lola Adams - feeling detached from the Mojave Wasteland. As she plans her next move, she realises there's someone she needs to ensure everything goes off without a hitch. Unfortunately for her, finding Benny might just mean making some powerful enemies and being forced to face up to her dark and fragmented past, left almost forgotten as the threat of the Legion taking Hoover Dam looms close.
Relationships: Benny & Female Courier, Benny (Fallout)/Female Courier
Comments: 11
Kudos: 13





	1. Something's Gotta Give

How many caps had she gambled away here already? How many had she spent on vodka that came in polished shot glasses and could be knocked back in seconds? By now, it was probably a damn sight more than she had spent on ammunition and weapon repairs put together, and while this was a recent development, it was still a development.

It was something that Lola could not ignore any longer – that her stockpile of caps was dwindling. She guessed she was down to no more than a hundred by now, and she had to admit, Lady Luck had played a large part in that.

The woman sighed as she slumped over the roulette table. She had since taken to waving her hand over the numbers at random, thinking that it could not be any worse than if she had intentionally picked one, and besides, she had her ways of ensuring the house didn’t let her down. Privately, she had resolved only to gamble at The Tops: bat her eyelashes and she could get a few chips for nothing. Blow the right Chairman and she could get even more, and a few drinks to boot if she put on a private show.

This was the way she did things, whenever and wherever she could. It didn’t always work; there had been times when her advances had been met with steely resolve, forcing her to try different and altogether more deadly tactics. The Mojave was as harsh a mistress as ever, so she had learned to get along with some submachine guns, her trusty brush gun and even some heavier artillery; even so, ammo was expensive and sex was cheap, for her at least. She knew well that her stockpile of caps had only become a stockpile because she had amassed several hundred bullets by screwing instead of shooting.

Even that had started to get stale, though. So, there she remained, gambling in The Tops and listening to the rumors that floated in and out of the casino, night after night. Sure, some of them were true, but she didn’t like to linger on those ones for too long. Work was work, anything she could do to get others on her side and gather up a few caps here and there; she couldn’t help making a name for herself.

“Can I get you anything, doll?” but of course, the Chairmen of all people knew exactly who she was. How could they not know? Sure enough, one of them with his polished shoes and slicked back hair winked at her. Lola playfully rolled her eyes.

“How about you get me summore of those chips, hm? Lady Luck ain’t favoring me tonight, if you get what I mean,” sure enough, a grin flickered across his face and he leaned in a little closer.

“Let’s see if we can’t do somethin’ about that then, huh honey baby? Of course, nothing’s free,” she knew this line, ‘nothing’s free,’ then again, she wondered if he’d ever known anything about scavenging in the wastes. Even if he had done at some point, his crisp white shirt and button-down blazer suggested he had long since forgotten it. He was right in one sense, though: nothing on The Strip was free.

“So, you know what the usual rates are?”

“Doll, every cat in this place knows your rates,”

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” she muttered, losing another ten chips to the dealer as she did so. “But you’re forgetting I ain’t the one who asked first this time,” a smirk crossed her face as she witnessed the look of shock that flashed across his face, lightning quick; he shook it off, but he was disappointed, there was no doubt about it. He had come across far too eager and Lola found she could only work her charms well on particularly stubborn targets.

“Well, you know, all you gotta do is ask, baby,” he mumbled dejectedly, not quite able to meet her gaze. He wandered away, plastering the Chairman grin that she knew only too well back on his face. He might circulate back to her table later, hoping she’d changed her mind. Perhaps she would have to: she was running seriously low on chips, now, and had not yet turned her attention toward the blackjack table.

She knew her current state of drinking, gambling, screwing and repeating was down to little more than boredom, and perhaps even disconnection from the outside world. She had only been on The Strip for a few weeks, a month at most, but it felt like a lifetime and she could not yet bring herself to leave. She had work to do, and she couldn’t do it alone; she had been waiting it out, letting the weeks limp by, anticipating any news of his whereabouts.

How ironic that she was intending to conspire with the man who had attempted to kill her, bullet to the skull and all.

Lola shrugged it off. Chairman charisma, a smile shot her way, but there was far more to it than that – Yes Man was helpful, but not helpful enough. She didn’t trust herself to go through the motions, let it all play out smoothly, so the only thing left to do was track Benny down for herself.

This had not proven to be a mean feat by any stretch of the imagination. Isolating herself in The Tops meant that the same rumors that drifted in from outside only seemed to relate to ‘someone being allowed inside the Lucky 38’ and the ‘Great Khans leaving the Mojave.’ None of it was news to her, but it had at first proven entertaining to listen to them and marvel at how twisted things could become when passed from one individual to another. She supposed there was some code of conduct in place that discouraged outsiders from speaking about known Chairman business. It was the only explanation for why she hadn’t yet heard anything.

“Where you going, doll?” the dealers always asked this question when they saw her leaving, and they only got a response if she was on a winning streak, which wasn’t often. Tonight, like so many others, was no such night. She waved a hand listlessly in the dealer’s general direction before dragging herself towards the elevator, always managing to forget where she was going and which room belonged to her.

‘Belonged’ was a stretch, but it was where most of the Chairmen knew to find her; she paid the rent in much the same way as she paid for anything else. It provided an adequate place for her to shower and sleep – such things could have been done at the Lucky 38, she knew, but the place was frozen, a lifeless time capsule. Even with the likes of Rex and Lily taking up residence there, it didn’t feel like a place anyone actually lived in. Besides, she figured she would soon be a lot less welcome around there …

“Thought you might wanna hear me out before you lay that pretty head of yours down, baby,” Lola raised her eyebrows, already in the process of unbuttoning her shirt when she heard him.

“You got news, Swank?” It wasn’t as though it mattered. ‘Sit around and look pretty’ he’d told her. Damn, she had done a lot more than sitting around and looking pretty and didn’t he know it. She sank into the sofa, letting her shirt hang open; a tempting reminder of what he’d be missing out on if his news didn’t satisfy her.

“I do. And I think you’re gonna dig it,”

“Let’s hear it, then,” that _smirk._ Always the same smirk, and always the same on men when they wanted the same thing.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, pussycat,” for a moment, Lola was frozen. It wasn’t as though she had not heard the term used casually enough in conversation, but it still took her back to the note left on the bed the morning after. She bit her lip softly, knowing what was coming.

“Give me the information, Swank, and I’ll give you what you want when you’re done,” he dug his hands into his pockets, one eyebrow raised: he wasn’t convinced. Lola couldn’t bring herself to stand up and act the part, push out her chest and lean all her weight on one hip; this was often all it took, just the suggestion of what was about to happen – and yet she didn’t much feel up to it tonight.

“Doll, you know I can’t let you do that. You might just run out on me,” there it was. The reminder that while the Chairmen tolerated her presence, while they knew what they could get from her, they didn’t trust her. It hadn’t taken much for her to win the favor of the other Families that inhabited The Strip, but the Chairmen were a different matter entirely. No amount of odd jobs or sexual favors could truly win them over; she knew it would take time, enough for her to enact the plan she had become so set on.

“You think I’d do that to you?” Lola allowed the faintest smirk to flit across her face, knowing it was now or never. She could play the wounded ingenue well. She could make her eyes wide, bat her eyelashes and shrug off her shirt, letting it flutter to the ground. _Keep your eyes on the prize._ She repeated this mantra in her head as she advanced with the kind of swagger only New Vegas could teach.

“Now that’s more like it,” for the time being, at least. She paused, letting her fingers play delicately with the button on her jeans, taunting him. She always had to be the one in control.

“So?”

“Keep on going like that, baby, and you can ask me anything you want about this joint,” a tempting offer, but it wasn’t what she wanted. Lola continued to let her hand hover at her waistband, advancing towards Swank until she was close enough to hook her fingers around his leather belt, using it to pull herself closer.

“So, what was that about me running out on you?” she breathed these words into his ear, keeping her limbs purposefully loose and moving around him with ease, serpentine. Hers was a venom unlike any other, not poisonous, but addictive – most wanted more of it after the first taste, her first strike. Sometimes, she ran from them but there were others who forced her hand and made her want to stay just a little longer, until both of them had had their fill.

Swank’s body tensed beside her; somehow, no matter how badly he wanted it, she always managed to take him by surprise.

“I-I didn’t mean it, baby doll … just … can’t be too safe, you know? This info, it’s heavy,” ah, how even Swank could not convince her he was capable of keeping his cool in a situation like this. She pressed herself up against him, letting his hands search her figure, finding the clasp of her bra. Her mind reeled as she tried to stay focused on her act: whatever he was about to say sounded significant, but she knew it could just as easily be a ruse. Lola bit her lip, exhaled another soft breath into his ear. Anything she could do to soften the blow she would deal just by guessing.

“You know something about Benny, don’t you?” if he had been tense before, it was nothing compared to this. In an instant, Lola’s face had split into a wide grin and she turned away from him, not bothering to dress herself. “Oops. Cat’s out of the bag now, huh?”

As she turned slowly back towards him, she found his expression difficult to read. In a way, he looked dumbfounded, but there was something else; something bordering on disappointment. She didn’t have to guess why. She had rumbled him, and he didn’t like what this meant, considering the possibility of not getting what he wanted out of her tonight after all.

“Damn it, doll,”

“Aw, don’t feel so bad about it,” without missing a beat, she homed in on him again. She knew he knew about Benny, but she didn’t know exactly _what_ he knew yet.

“You really know how to let a guy down,” the suggestion of what was to come flashed in her eyes as she dropped to her knees.

“Funny, I thought down was exactly where I needed to be,” there it was again, Swank’s muscles tensing as she unfastened his belt effortlessly. She looked up at him, running her tongue across her lips, noticing how powerless her hints made him; surrender was something she was used to, the look men gave when they were caught enthralled her spurring her on. It was amazing, really, just how quickly she had managed to render him vulnerable.

“Doll …” he trailed, but she shook her head.

“Where’s Benny?” he did nothing to stop her as she moved in, so close that he could no doubt feel each breath she took. “Tell me, or you’ll be waiting a long time for what I’m about to do next,”

“I heard,” he paused, clearly not wanting to impart the information he had just yet. She watched as he hovered on the precipice of something, expecting her to take it all and leave him wanting, but she wasn’t so cruel, at least not usually.

“I’m waiting,” Lola breathed a soft sigh, resolving that she would need to do more to win him over, so she leaned in, finally making contact.

“Legion … C-Cottonwood Cove, something about a Fort,” this was all he could manage but it was all she needed. He’d made it all worth her while, and she couldn’t help but muse over her next step even as she went to work, hearing him gasp above her, feeling his muscles twitch and contract as she did what she knew so well to do.

Only the next few days would tell how well it would all work out for her, though. She’d have to get herself back into fighting shape again; The Strip had softened her up, there was no doubt about it, but she didn’t have enough weapons to fill an armory stashed away for nothing.


	2. Keep It Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lola sets out for Cottonwood Cove, where Swank seems to think Benny is being held - but what awaits her on her journey? Has the New Vegas Strip really softened her up all that much?

Lola glanced casually at the luminous clock in the top right corner of her Pip-Boy, laying idle on top of a pile of clothes. Five. She doubted anyone would still be milling around seeing as the Aces had closed four hours ago and it tended to be much quieter around this time before the joint filled up again. Maybe she should slip on something a little less comfortable or, hell, maybe nobody would care if they saw her edging out of the casino with guns strapped to her thighs and a look that could kill.

All of this was assuming she could remove Swank’s arm from her waist and right now, that didn’t seem to be an option. He was curled tightly around her as though he knew exactly what she was planning to do, but what she couldn’t understand was why, if this was the case, he even cared. Misplaced chivalry, she supposed. The Chairmen, like so many others, made the mistake of assuming women didn’t fare well in the Wasteland – they were that out of touch.

She hadn’t let slip, of course, about what Benny had done to warrant her arrival at The Tops in the first place – once she had made her mind up and figured out a way around it, she hadn’t needed to. Then again, the fact that she had arrived here at all was testament to her survival out in the harshness of the Wasteland and all it had thrown at her. Going back out there wasn’t likely to be a problem, though maybe he knew as well as she did she’d gotten soft.

“Got quite the grip on you. Of course, I knew that already,” she murmured as she tried to extricate herself from his embrace, not so much one of romance as one of habit. Eventually she managed it, trying not to make too much noise as she rolled out of the bed, glancing down at her clothes and then at her day pack. She shrugged; it was too much effort to go to, wearing a dress when anyone who wanted to find out would know it was her anyway.

Only she knew what came next. The elevator whirred, a low hum following her to the lower floors of the casino, and she crossed the lobby swiftly, a few heads turning towards her but not enough to cause a stir.

“My weapons,” she muttered to the woman slumped at the desk, one step beyond exhausted. She’d always found it strange that they kept surrendered weapons behind the desk where people cashed their chips.

“Your name, please?” the woman groaned, barely able to string even this short sentence together.

“Lola Adams,” the woman nodded in compliance. Talking seemed too taxing for her but she turned away, disappearing from view before returning a moment later, tentatively balancing a lockbox that she slid across the desk without speaking. Lola didn’t even utter a word of thanks as she opened the box using a small, silver key handed over in exchange for the goods; she armed herself, knowing the heavier artillery was still stashed up in the Lucky 38, but this was all she should need for the time being. If it was a choice between taking out the big guns and being able to move quickly in a fight, she knew what she would prefer. She slid the open box back across the desk to the cashier, the key still lodged in its lock, not bothering to draw the woman’s attention to the fact that she’d just walked out of the casino armed for a fight.

That was it, then. She stepped out of The Tops, knowing that the Chairmen wouldn’t leave the gates or the relative safety of The Strip, so once she made it through Freeside, she was home free.

It surprised her. Perhaps it was simply because most people were subdued by hangovers and losing streaks at this time in the morning, but nobody seemed to care for a gun-toting blonde in tattered jeans. Maybe she would regret not throwing on more substantial armor, but she’d gotten by just fine in what she was wearing up until now.

She didn’t linger as she crossed Freeside, keeping careful watch for errant thugs, but even they didn’t seem to have the energy to bother with her at this hour. A member of the Kings recognized her as she passed through the East gate, but he offered her little more than a nod in exchange for the one she gave him.

Lola looked out over the dim wastes, not yet illuminated or scorched by the sun; she was grateful for the dawn’s cooler temperature. A thin, violet band stretched for miles across the horizon, disappearing behind the jagged silhouettes of the mountains in the distance, a reminder that this part of the Mojave was cut off from the rest, a natural divide between North and South, East and West. She could turn back now if she wanted, but there was no point in that: she had to keep on.

“I guess this is it, then,” she couldn’t help but notice how her voice wavered as she spoke to herself. She told herself she wasn’t apprehensive, but it didn’t matter because she knew she wasn’t ready for this, not by a long shot. She breathed in slowly, taking in the taste of the Wasteland, the dry earth and cool air, frowning – she’d almost forgotten this, too. She didn’t like it. It reminded her of how quickly people changed and lost themselves when faced with money and indulgence.

She felt strangely alone. She’d made the journey to The Strip with various companions in tow; Boone, always a perfect shot with his rifle, always eager to spill Legion blood; Veronica, instantly drawn to the signature crackle emitted by most energy weapons, always ready with a quip; Cass who was the only woman Lola knew who could drink her under the table. They’d followed her in turn, along with Lily, Raul, ED-E and Rex and eventually, Arcade, all of them vagrants in their own right only to end up housed, however tenuously, in the Lucky 38.

There were plenty of occasions on which they’d saved her skin, too. If she wasn’t careful, the cazadores would put paid to her if some radscorpion or deathclaw didn’t do it first.

Before she set out, Lola bent down carefully, checking her day pack, loading ammunition into the various pockets and compartments she kept strapped to her person, cursing herself silently for not thinking to do this sooner. Guns were no good without ammunition, and there were some situations she couldn’t sleep her way out of.

“How unlucky can one gal really be?” she whispered to herself, hoping that even if her luck was as terrible as it had been last night, she might just be granted some reprieve. She shook her head, knowing that the first step into the wilderness was always the hardest one to take – after that, all she had to do was run.

* * *

Hours later, Lola recalled how she had convinced herself that running was the answer, that this was all it would take. She had been running for a while, alright, and now she’d run right into trouble.

“Fuck,” she muttered to herself as she poked her head around the side of the boulder, able to see the deathclaws ambling amongst themselves in the distance. So much for a shortcut. They hadn’t yet spotted her, but she knew it wouldn’t take long, especially if they were the blind variety; cheap Vegas perfume stunk for miles, they were bound to sniff her out.

Lola rifled through her various pockets and pouches, trying desperately not to make too much noise. She would need all the ammunition she could load into her rifle, the brush gun slung innocently enough across her back – hollow points would work best, spreading out and causing unseen damage. Not only this, but her aim would have to be precise as well and she wasn’t so much the type to line up her shots carefully as she was to run and gun, spraying out bullets and praying for the best.

There was a first time for everything.

Her heartbeat thudded up into her throat, so fast she was sure the beasts would sense it before long, smell her blood as it pumped rapidly through her veins and come to finish her off. It was a fear mostly borne out of Wasteland legend, she knew, but she didn’t think the creatures earned their moniker for nothing and even from a distance, their claws simply _looked_ razor sharp; what if one of them sliced off an arm or leg, or worse? Once they smelled blood, she’d be ripped apart in seconds, she knew it.

“Keep it together,” she whispered, slowly rising to her feet and stepping precariously around the boulder. _Not too close … aim … line the shot up …_ Lola squinted in the sunlight, closing one eye and crouching down, wondering why she hadn’t bothered to go back for a sniper rifle, and why she was about to engage in direct combat with such dangerous creatures. She tried to steady herself, feeling tremors course up and down her arms as she pointed her rifle at one of the beasts. There was no other way. She convinced herself of it.

She pulled the trigger once, twice, relieved to see the shot hit the deathclaw nearest to her directly between the eyes. She didn’t have time to pause, however, because she’d alerted the other three beasts to her presence and more were sure to follow. She didn’t have time to aim as she fired off random shots, fingers fumbling as she tried to reload at speed, hoping that she was hitting vital parts of deathclaw anatomy, the round spreading out causing untold damage within.

Another shot to the head, more luck than judgement, but a saving grace all the same. The creature fell back, leaving only two more in pursuit of her. She fired in the general direction of the third, but not before–

“Shit, fuck, damn it,” Lola bit down hard on her bottom lip as the claw whipped at her leg, the creature catching her even as it fell on its back, limbs curled in like some grotesque dead insect. Bright red blossomed through a fresh tear in her jeans. It was a scratch, a flesh wound but it was deeper than any flesh wound she’d ever known. Gritting her teeth against the throbbing sensation that spread through her leg, Lola aimed again, closing her eyes and firing … if she wasn’t so fortunate, if it was all going to end here, all she could hope was that it would be over quickly, a flash of razor claws, then nothing.

It took a moment for her to realize she was holding her breath. As she blinked her eyes open, Lola noticed the trail of deathclaw corpses up ahead, but she wasn’t about to give any more the chance to arrive. She slung her brush gun across her back again, breathing in sharply as she put weight on her left leg; she’d have to get that seen to when she had the time.

“Damn you, Benny,” she muttered, but her face split into a relieved grin all the same. There weren’t many who could say they’d faced off against four deathclaws and lived to tell the tale, not that she put any of it down to skill. If she shared in Old World beliefs, she would have been tempted to suggest that someone had been watching over her, but she knew better; if things really did happen for a reason, then the world wouldn’t have ended up like this. She wouldn’t have ended up like this.

She waited until she was a safe enough distance away, until the only sound she could hear was the soft hush of breeze across the plains. Only then did Lola allow herself to sink to the ground. She opened her day pack, feeling around for the familiar needle, folding her hand around one lingering nearer the top before ripping off the cap and plunging it into her leg. With the Stimpak still sticking out of her limb, she clasped her hand around the smooth neck of a glass bottle, planting it on the ground before diving in again, in search of the rough strips of cloth she always kept in there, always _just in case._

“Shame. I was looking forward to this later on,” she cast a longing look at the vodka, clear liquid swilling around in the scratched bottle. She twisted off the cap, pouring some onto one of the cloth strips she’d fished out of the bag, willing herself not to scream as she fastened it around her leg, watching the blood soak through instantly.

It would have to do. Once it was all over and done with, she’d get Arcade to take a look, but she didn’t have the time to go back, not now. The relative safety of The Strip called to her; if she turned her attention Northwest, she could still see the tower of the Lucky 38 looming on the horizon. She had to keep going. Nothing would work if she didn’t.


	3. Render Unto Caesar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lola arrives at Fortification Hill with a plan - a reckless one, but a plan all the same. Even the best laid plans fail, a fact that Courier Six knows all too well.

She breathed in and out deeply, watching from the Overlook. This was it. Alone with only the gun slung across her back and the two others strapped to her legs, Lola knew it was now or never. Her day pack was loaded with essentials, its weight pressing down on her back.

She clasped her free hand around her neck, checking for the small coin attached to the chain. The Mark: good, it was still there. She swallowed down one more deep breath before turning, making her way down the slope whilst trying to salvage her injured leg a little; it still throbbed, though the pain was dulled by the Med-X she had injected a short way back. She’d been sure to take just enough that she could still keep her wits about her, not so much that anyone could tell.

She was only afraid because she knew what she was intending to do once she got to the Fort, all for a guy who had shot her in the head, but she had her reasons. This alone made it easier for Lola to justify her actions; that, and she knew what the Legion did to women. The thought rose up like bile in her throat, but she forced it down – if she dwelled too long, she wouldn’t even make it down the slope.

“I—” She stopped dead, instead holding out the gold coin upon its thin chain, offering the Mark as her passport. The guard said nothing, simply nodded, ushering her towards the docks silently.

* * *

“Are you ready to make the trip to Fortification Hill?” it was clear that the man – Lucullus? Had that been the name she had been told? It didn't matter. He had apparently not asked many outsiders this question because he spoke in a stilted fashion, lip curling upwards as he did so.

“I am,” it was clear from her look of disdain that she was not. Best not to think about what awaited her at the other end. Shaking, Lola stepped onto the raft, settling uncomfortably, stretching her wounded leg out in front of her. The pain was starting to return meaning that the effects of the Med-X were wearing off and it couldn’t have come at a worse time – the Legion were not known for their tolerance of Chem users.

“The Mojave is a dangerous place. Especially for a woman,” she had not failed to notice Lucullus' eyes falling upon the roughly bandaged wound, and the sneer on his face as he said this. She forced herself to smirk, a better way of dealing with the spark of anger that threatened to ignite her fury at his comment.

“I seemed to have fared well, wouldn't you say?”

“Indeed. It is unusual. Very unusual,” there was something hesitant about his tone. Lola wanted to grimace, to inform him that they had gravely underestimated her, and likely many other women this side of the Colorado river, but she did not. Instead, she looked quietly up at the faded sky, orange as the sun set, blue as night fell. It all felt the same when the heat was not baking the Mojave, distinctly colder than it was during the day. Rock faces rose up out of the sand and water on both sides, jagged as they towered over them, trapping her where she was. She hated the feeling.

She could feel his eyes upon her and recognized that the rumors were true, but then again, she’d already known this much when she had set out. Women were not human in the eyes of the Legion; they were simply tools, corralled like brahmin and in spite of her reputation, no matter what she liked to think of herself, Lola was no exception.

* * *

“We're here,” perhaps because they had been traveling by river, or more likely because she had already walked so far across the Mojave and was dreading the encounter, the journey had passed surprisingly quickly. The only time she’d been this apprehensive was when she had been kneeling atop the hill, looking out over the blinking lights of the New Vegas Strip, thinking that it would be the last thing she ever saw. Save for when ... when they’d dragged her by her wrist from her room on the night of her thirteenth birthday; then, years later as she tried and failed to hide herself in a crevice carved into a rock face, looking out over a murky sea. She could barely move from the raft, and did so slowly, as though she weighed down by her own equipment. This was it.

Lola nodded once, slowly and solemnly as she stepped onto the bank, unable to hear anything, her chest tight; everything sounded far off, distorted as though she was submerged under water. There was a haze that fell across what she could see in front of her, her head pounding, buzzing like she had taken too much Med-X. She had felt this before and knew what to call it: this was fear. Somehow, the prospect of being shot in the head by a dozen or so heavily armed Praetorians made her dealings with Benny seem suddenly insignificant.

“Strip'll save me,” she whispered, holding the Mark between her middle and fore fingers as the guards lowered the drawbridge. The safety of The Strip would be all hers, soon. And then ... then ...

Caesar's tent was obvious, even from miles off, rising up in shades of crimson and gold; it was obtrusive, impossible to ignore. It was not the exterior that put her on edge. It was the knowledge of what would happen once she was inside. Her fingers continued to play at the chain around her neck as she stared directly ahead, ignoring everyone around her; she had neither the time nor the desire to talk to them. Maybe she would be able to get away clean, supposing Benny didn't manage to mess things up. It didn’t seem likely.

Lola stood, staring at the tent flap for a while. In a moment. In a moment, she would do it. She edged forward a little, each step a small triumph, telling herself she would have to do it soon: there was no point in waiting.

She had to admit, Caesar looked a lot less intimidating than she had been led to believe. While his guard stood around, all spiked hair and tinted glasses, watching her closely as she walked past them, there was something resolutely calm about the man, placid, even. He was burly, lounging about on brindled animal hide, a warrior at rest, unperturbed by the ongoing conflict that raged on across the desert.

Then again, looks could be deceiving.

His reputation preceded him, and news of his temper had spread over time, but here he looked more strategist than warlord, like the only thing he did was bark carefully devised orders. The Power fist strapped to his wrist seemed incongruous, a useless weapon adorning a man who never waded into battle himself and preferred to send others to fight for him. She thought of the rumors she’d heard about Legate Lanius, and the mere whispers of the ghost that was the Burned Man, musing that these men were the warriors; the bloodied right hand of a man who fancied himself a tyrant.

Lola caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye – there was no mistaking that suit. She had come to know it well and associated it with both pain and pleasure. Here, however, Benny had lost much of his usual bravado and looked lost and anxious, as though he feared for his life. This was to be expected, given who was guarding him and the way his wrists were roughly bound; she might have called it karmic retribution, but she was far too focused on her plans to care.

“You've arrived, then?” Caesar's voice took her by surprise. Again, there was something oddly sedate about it – a certain depth, maybe. It didn’t put her at ease. How could it? Here was a man responsible for destruction, for desecration, who ordered his men to string people up on wooden crosses and herd the others like cattle.

“As you requested,” she nodded, not quite able to ignore the guards as they studied her. Their eyes rested on small details; the buttons left unfastened on her shirt, the bandages wrapped around her leg, the layered scuff marks on her boots. She suppressed the shiver that longed to run the length of her spine. She couldn’t show weakness.

“Then I take it you know what you're here for?”

“I do,” it wasn’t a lie, not exactly. She had to let him believe in her loyalty and of course a man such as Caesar would easily assume that she would follow him blindly, out of fear. She was not so stupid. Once she had served her purpose, she would be enslaved, and she was not about to let that happen. No, she had her own reasons for being here, and swearing her allegiance to the Legion was not one of them.

“Then you are prepared to serve the Legion unquestioningly?” she paused. She would never serve the Legion, but if there was one thing Lola was good at, it was making empty promises when she had to. She hadn’t expected this to be an option, but if she had to talk, she would talk her way out of it, just like she always did. She’d work under the guise that she would deal with Benny in her own way – in a way, she _was_ going to – then make a break for it. Easier said than done, perhaps, since she’d surrendered her weapons upon arriving at the Fort. She didn’t dare look at the Praetorians. If it came to it, she’d have to find a way to wrest their weapons from them. Lola breathed in deeply.

“I will do all that I can,” she did not want to repeat his request: she didn’t think she could spit the words out. Tiptoeing around the truth was safer than telling a lie. It was the only way to ensure she could do what she needed to do next. She blinked as Caesar held up a gleaming object between two fingers, not needing to guess what it was.

“You know what this is?”

“How could I forget?” She was only here because of that damn Chip. Luckily, Caesar took her quip for what it was rather than an insult to his intelligence and the knot in Lola's chest eased a little, if only because she knew, now, that they deemed her necessary.

“And you know what it does?”

“I know that it's important,” Caesar nodded, seemingly following. She only knew so much, enough that she would still be useful to him, not enough that she could pass the knowledge on so they could be done with her. Taking her chances, she shot a look over at Benny, trying to assure him she knew, really, what the Chip was capable of.

“Do I get to deal with Benny first, though?” It was a rash decision, quite the gamble, but she was used to gambling by now. All she had to do was take down those inside the tent, and then they would be free – assuming they could avoid bullets on their way out. Assuming Benny could swim. Assuming ... damn, and she thought she had planned it out well. Regardless of her sudden lapse in judgment, Caesar seemed unconcerned, simply tilting his head in Benny's direction.

“He already knows that you get to choose how he dies,” she tried not to look alarmed by this, but then again, it was not as though she hadn't expected to hear it. Had he been lounging around next to Caesar's throne it would have been a different story, but seeing as how he was tied up, it only made sense for them to be keeping him as a hostage.

Without another word, she turned her attention towards him, glaring convincingly despite her true motives. Without alerting him, she sent her fist directly at the man in the checkered suit, unable to ignore the look of panic in his eyes. It connected with a sharp crack that left her hand sore, so she fell to one knee; from there, she pretended to nurse her fist, reinforcing their ideals about women and keeping up the act at the same time. Once she was close enough that she would not be heard by the Praetorians, she leaned in.

“I'm getting you out of here. Don't ask, follow me and you _might_ live,” she knew it wasn’t necessary to be so cryptic. She had to be careful, though.

“Pussycat, ain't this platinum?” Benny grimaced, his cheek turning pink where she’d hit him. Just what she had been afraid of. Thinking on her feet, Lola winced, kneeling opposite him and hoping her expression would do the talking.

“Caesar said I get to decide how you die,” apparently not. Wide-eyed fear flitted across his face once again but this time, she could not shake her head. The irony was almost too much to bear; he obviously mistook the way in which her lips twitched for a far different sentiment.

“Well, try not to smile so wide, baby, you might break your mouth,” she leaned in again, making it look as though she’d caused herself considerable pain by punching him, doubled over.

“I'm not going to kill you. But we're going to have one hell of a fight on our hands. Try not to die, I don't much like the idea of being sold off as a slave,” she didn't have time to register his expression as she fumbled around, trying to ensure they didn’t see what she was reaching for. It was the one place they wouldn’t think to look: deftly, she slid her hand down inside her jeans where the soft leather pouch was lodged uncomfortably, pressing against her right thigh. Without another word, she eased the small knife out of its pouch and slit the ropes binding his wrists together then inclined her head a fraction, doing her best to remind him not to move just yet.

“What are my options?” she called, raising her voice so that they could hear her, stepping back and watching as Benny looked up, pleading with her. Good. He was finally playing along.

“Crucifixion, or a fight to the death,” it was not Caesar who spoke, this time. She didn't know who the disembodied voice belonged to, so she simply listened, unsure of whether or not to pick an option in favor of just getting the hell out of there.

Before she could do anything more, she felt the shot whistle past her ear. They knew. Soon, they would both be surrounded, and most likely beaten to death.

“Still not deathclaws, though.” She whispered to herself, signaling for Benny to get up, unsure of whether or not he saw her as she turned on her heel, knife at the ready, plunging it into the jugular of the Praetorian closest to her.

It was a lucky strike, that was for sure. Dodging bullets that ruffled her hair, Lola whipped round just as one grazed painfully past her arm, slicing apart the fabric of her shirt and she silently cursed herself for not thinking to wear anything more substantial.

She stooped down as the scene ahead played out in slow motion: six hulking Praetorians surging towards her, followed by their leader, no longer languid on his throne, his Power fist raised. She wrapped her fingers around the submachine gun dropped by the guard who was slowly bleeding out, not bothering to aim, just pulling the trigger and hoping for the best. It wasn’t the first time she’d done so. She was limited to the rounds left in the gun and so knew she stood every chance of running out of ammunition sooner rather than later, but Lola tried to put the thought from her mind, backing away towards the entrance to the tent as the Praetorians advanced, Caesar behind them.

“Do _not_ go outside,” she called out, unable to look at whatever Benny was doing.

“Your call, pussycat,” she couldn’t place where inside the tent his voice came from, but at least he was still alive. She stumbled as a Praetorian, almost twice her size, barreled into her. They crashed to the floor, his weight pinning her there, but in the dim light of the tent, Lola noticed something else; above her, something silver flashed as he threatened to bury the knife in her skull.

“Bastard,” she spat at him, trying not to let the panic rise in her voice as she writhed, moving her head to the side, the knife barely missing her cheek, sunk deep into the dry ground – if it had connected, she would have been dead in an instant, her face caved in. He tugged at the handle, Lola feeling as though her ribs were collapsing beneath him, struggling for breath: she had to do something. The thought was fleeting, but she acted upon it instinctively, sinking her teeth into his arm, feeling him withdraw.

“Fucking _bitch_ ,” he hissed, but it didn’t matter: the pause granted her reprieve enough. She rolled out from under him, gasping for air, hearing the crackling shots as they burst from the barrels of guns around the room, sounding suddenly closer … she supposed they must have swarmed by now. Still, she hadn’t expected it to end like this.

She felt the hand upon her wrist before she saw the suit. He was dragging her to her feet, pumping out bullets indiscriminately, somehow having recovered a gun for himself; from the look of his crumpled, dust-caked suit, this couldn’t have happened a moment too soon. One guard fell back, bullets sunk into his head. Lola pulled the trigger and another stumbled, his kneecaps shattered by bullets. Two more. Staccato bursts from the gun Benny was wielding buried themselves deep in the chest of one guard, the final Praetorian gaining on them, too close … Lola squeezed the trigger at almost point-blank range, his skull bursting open, showering her with crimson.

She didn’t have time to pause and survey the scene that had unfolded inside the tent. Caesar would soon be—

It didn’t make sense. Caesar was less than three feet away from them, close enough to attack, and yet he stood in the middle of the tent, doubled over, groaning. Lola blinked once, twice, trying to make sure that her eyes were not deceiving her, and sure enough, he had stopped dead, seemingly not caring that they were still in his presence or that he was close enough to finish them both if he wanted to.

“We're splitting,” she muttered, stooping down to swipe a second submachine gun: the fight was sure to be raging on outside and they would need to protect themselves.

Everything around her seemed to move in slow motion. Guards and Legionaries turned their heads to better understand why they were running at such a pace, and slaves ducked out of the way, so as not to get caught in the crossfire. Bullets outstripped her, soaring past at speed and she knew they were coming, but the drawbridge was open and the Legionaries guarding it hadn’t yet made the connection that these two outsiders were the source of the chaos.

The thought of leaving her weapons at the Fort stung, but not as much as failing to make it out at all. The rifle caught her eye as the guards turned to her, realization finally dawning, but she couldn’t slow, couldn’t stop; instead Lola stretched out her hand and tried to wrap her fingers around it as they passed, the brush gun just within her reach. Spare ammunition clattered around on the table as she swiped it, clinging tightly, sure they must have emptied it – still, she’d salvaged it.

“The river,” she gasped, almost choking, struggling to breathe against the knives in her chest. Damn, she hoped he could swim. Yeah. Sure he could. What kind of a fink couldn't swim, especially out here? And she knew the Tops had a pool ...

The slope of the hill had aided in their getaway, but Lola didn’t consider this right away. They had gathered speed as they had dashed towards the river, and she recalled hoping that there would be no lakelurks there to impede their getaway, but there hadn’t been any and so together their bodies had hit the cool surface of the water. It had stung even as they had made it a way upriver, back towards the North, and she vaguely recalled being dragged out again before losing consciousness on the bank.


	4. Goddamn Broad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benny questions why Lola, the 'goddamn broad' rescued him from the Legion, putting both of their lives at risk in the process - what is she planning? How does he factor into her plans? And, more importantly, did she manage to retrieve the Platinum Chip in the process?

“You've been out cold for a while, doll,” he muttered casually as the woman roused. No, maybe it had not been necessary for him to drag her out of the river, and no, he had not been concerned so much for her welfare as he was curious as to whether or not she had managed to swipe the Chip during all the commotion back at the Fort. That, and it would have been nice to know exactly why she had bothered saving him at all.

“We got away, right?” he almost laughed at the comment. Almost. There was something grim about the situation, though; it had been a much closer call than Benny would have liked, and so, they’d barely escaped with their lives.

He couldn't help himself. His eyes moved slowly across her figure, but the broad didn’t seem all that concerned. He disliked the coolness in her expression, knowing what he knew just as well as she did; it had not been necessary for him to remove her clothing and spread it out on the ground in the hope that it would dry. When she turned to him, he almost wanted to back away.

“So, you like 'em comatose, now? No wonder you shot me,” damn it. She was toying with him, but the quip bothered Benny anyway. The suggestion of a smirk played across her pink lips and her brown eyes glistened.

“Pussycat, you know it ain't like that—”

“Mojave's hot as hell. You didn't need to take my clothes to get 'em dry,” smart, too, though he'd never let on he thought so. She tried to downplay it, she'd tried it on multiple occasions, but there was only so far she could take the act. He did his best not to look guilty – that was the last thing he needed – and for some reason, his face must have come out looking a little crooked. What a shame. He could have held this over her in one way or another.

“Come on, doll,”

“Just admiring my 'charlies' were ya?” there was that, too, but she wasn't as innocent as she made herself out to be.

“You wouldn't mind if I was. Like I said, baby, there's quins and then there's ... you,” the comment caught her by surprise, but she didn't seem to care much. Damn, did everything roll so easily off this broad's back? If that was the case, maybe they weren't so different after all, but Benny tried to put the thought from his mind because he wasn’t ready to face up to it, not just yet. She looked thoughtful for a second, lips still fixed in some kind of lustful pout even when she wasn’t trying anything – though there was every chance she was still doing it on purpose. Even with her hair, which he strongly suspected was bleached with Abraxo Cleaner, falling roughly into her face, the band that usually held it in place having snapped, she could not look anything less than desirable. Part of her trick, no doubt.

“Guess you know by now I wasn't just looking for a fling, then, huh?”

“Damn, don't I know it,” he muttered darkly, not even having to think about that. Yeah, sure, he should probably have read the signs before she started stripping in his suite rather than after they’d finished, but what else could he have done? Considering she had been shot in the head, buried in a shallow grave and trekked across the Mojave to find him, she could have done a hell of a lot worse for herself. Instead, she had showed up in _that_ dress. She sure had been brazen. He didn't know many girls who could idly wander along the strip with little more than black lace covering their charlies, other than the dames paid to do it from Gomorrah.

Damn, didn’t she have the body for it, though. He watched her as she turned away from him, suddenly caught in the moment, ripping open the small satchel that was slowly drying on the bank. Benny’s eyes took in her figure, her curves, cut from some kind of cloth they didn’t make any more; he let out a low whistle under his breath, but she didn’t hear him as she turned back around.

“Shame neither of us got what we wanted in the end, then,” just like that, she could turn off the charm offensive. Her face twisted into a bitter expression as she drew her knees up to her chest, staring down at the hard, dusty ground as though it had wronged her in some way. She was right about that, too, of course. He didn't need to ask what she was going on about, because he hadn't managed to nab the Chip, either – who was he kidding? If he couldn't kill a half conscious broad, how was he supposed to kill Caesar? He left that up to her, but she had seemed a little more than just preoccupied back at the Fort.

Something glinted in the sand, though, small, silver and familiar. She didn’t stop him as he leaned forward to grasp at it, something he’d long since assumed lost, all the way back in Boulder City. Damn thieving Khans.

“I gotta ask, baby,” she glanced up at him, raising one dark eyebrow; another small detail that told him that hair of hers was anything but real, though he’d already found that out for himself through … other means. She seemed to relent a little, already anticipating his question.

“Go on,”

“Easy, now. Let me get this straight. I ambush you, and you hoof it all the way to Vegas to find me,”

“I did,”

“You show up on the Strip looking for … well, I don’t know what you were looking for, pussycat, but that sure was an eighteen-karat night,” at this, her expression softened a little. He hadn’t taken her for the kind of girl to seek approval, but he could tell that his comments hadn’t fallen flat.

“So you told me,”

“I skipped out on you, baby, and you just risked your pretty little neck to save me,” none of it made sense. From the moment she’d shown up at The Tops, coiling around him, suggesting things he’d never expected her to suggest, everything he’d thought about how the situation was going to play out had been wrong. He’d never seen worse odds. He’d heard the rumors, whispers about a Courier coming back from the dead, some pretty blonde thing with a killer body and even better aim. He’d been waiting for her with bodyguards in tow, armed for bear but nothing could have prepared him for the approach she took.

“And let me guess, you want to know why?”

“Can you blame, me, doll?” at this, Benny opened the small silver lighter she’d returned to him, flicking it open out of habit. There was no point in trying to light a cigarette; even if the packet he’d kept on his person hadn’t been confiscated at the Fort, their little dip in the Colorado river would have rendered them useless, anyway. Shame. Her eyes were drawn to it, watching him with something he’d never seen on her before: curiosity. Still, even as he flicked the lighter on, off, on again, she played her cards close to her chest, slowly thinking over the answer she planned to give him – that had been easier than he’d thought.

“I need you,” she didn’t sigh it like a woman about to dissolve into his arms. Her expression hardened again as she said it, as though she intended to leave him in no doubt that she’d freed him out of misplaced affection.

“Couldn’t get enough of the Ben-Man, hey?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I want Vegas,” she unfurled her legs as she said this, stretching them out on the bank. He let his eyes linger too long on the places he knew she’d want him to linger on, but he was quickly drawn to the gash running across her left leg. He’d noticed it at the Fort, but things had moved too quickly for him to take in the crimson blossoming through her bandages; unprotected, it was thrown into sharp relief by the setting sun.

“And you figure I’m the big-leaguer to help you out,” she shrugged, though it wasn’t her shoulders he was looking at.

“Something like that. See, after you split, I took the time to take a wander ‘round your suite. Real interesting place, though you should really look into getting that hole in the wall fixed up,” goddamn broad. Benny felt his jaw drop at her revelation, knowing that he’d underestimated her, big style. She didn’t need to explain it in any more detail than she already had.

“So, you found Yes Man, hey baby?”

“I found Yes Man,” she nodded, white blonde hair falling in her face as she did so. Something crept along the edges of her expression – satisfaction, maybe? Triumph? For a woman who so often put everything on show, she sure knew how to make herself hard to read.

“The cat told you everything,” it wasn’t a question; of course Yes Man told her everything, he had no choice but to do exactly that. It was the way he’d been programmed, after all.

“He told me enough. But, see … I need me someone who _really_ knows Vegas, you get what I mean?” she was inching closer to him, her belongings abandoned on the shore as she rolled onto her knees, advancing, covered in grit. Her body was as good a weapon as the rifle she’d risked her safety to retrieve; always kept in good order, always ready to go, always reliable. She drew up close enough that Benny could feel her breath, see her shoulders heaving, here, as the sun set, she was about to entice him once again, but instead she slumped forward, fading fast. The day’s events had no doubt taken their toll – even though he knew the Legion would soon be on their tail, he was hardly inclined to leave. 

“How'd you do that, baby?” he motioned to the dark red gash stretched across her leg, eager to change the subject; sure, she was using him, playing a game, but that was not to say he didn’t have a few tricks of his own up his sleeve.

“Deathclaw almost ripped my leg off,” her face broke into a weak grin, but he knew it was temporary. He hadn’t seen anything like her, shot dead, buried in a shallow grave, rising up from it to track down the man responsible. If he’d have known any of this before he caught up with her, he’d have dealt with the broad in a much different way. How, in all of the wide Wastes had she managed to run into a deathclaw? And how had she managed to live to tell the tale? It was pointless asking how she had escaped with her life, really, since hers was a kind of fire all its own. That, or she was just plain lucky.

* * *

As the sun dipped below the crude horizon, orange to violet, Lola began to pull on her clothes, rifling through her belongings with a renewed sense of urgency.

“How long d'you think it'll take them to track us down?” he said nothing. Sure, he was mathematical when it came to calculating things like odds and earnings, but he couldn't say, and if she couldn't either, it would seem the two of them were more than a little screwed. He noted how she had collected most of the things left on the bank indicating that now was as good a time as any to make tracks.

“Not that I'm agreeing with you or anything, pussycat,” he started, pushing himself to his feet and dusting off any dirt that might have started clinging to his suit. “But I'd say that they're not far off, and those cats seemed pretty hacked to me, dig?” she didn't respond. He could almost see what was going to happen before it did, however – the woman tried to sling the day pack onto her back, stumbled forward and fell to her knees. For a fraction of a second, he could have sworn he felt himself lurching, too, so that he could grab her before she fell. Only for a fraction of a second, though, and not before she had actually fallen. Not enough time to make the gesture seem real.

“Sure, don't help me out, then,” it came out as more of a whimper. His eyes widened a little, but she simply slung the bag to the ground, unzipping it and taking out a box with a green cross marked on the lid. He wanted to look away as she plunged the syringe into her arm, unsure of what was in that vial, feeling almost as though it was a private thing, something he should not intrude upon. Where had that come from? Sure as anything, though, she was soon back up on her feet, stumbled a little as she rose, but she was up. Resilient. Of course, he had known that the moment she had walked back into the Tops. She shrugged, not saying a word, digging her boots into the grit and sand.

“Whatever you say, pussycat,” he didn't care for the fact that he was the one following her, not the other way around. His turn would come, he knew it – Lady Luck hadn't exactly been shining down on him as of late, but that just made him even more sure that she would have to start shining, and soon. The blonde would come around, too, supposing he could twist the odds in his favor a little more … but that was supposing the goddamn broad didn't kill him, first.


	5. She's Picked Out a King Size Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Safely back at The Tops, Lola and Benny begin to plot exactly how they're going to take Vegas for their own; but sometimes, actions speak louder than words. This chapter contains some slightly more explicit content towards the end!

“Let's get something straight,” She leaned across the counter, well aware that his eyes would be drawn to ... well, where else would they be? “I've lied, cheated, stolen, killed and more importantly, I've fucked my way to where I am. So, don’t take it too hard that I ain’t dropping everything at your feet right now,” there was no mistaking the look in his eyes: he wasn’t buying what she was selling, he was just working out the odds. On one hand, here she was draped in a flimsy pre-War satin gown that left little to the imagination, in his suite, completely unarmed. On the other, she was the only person allowed inside the Lucky 38’s elusive penthouse. It was a pretty safe bet that he needed her around, at least for the time being.

“Pussycat,” he smirked at her, and for the first time since she had rescued him, she truly saw his suave composure returning. “You're forgetting that this is as much my scene as it is yours,” true; lying to the Great Khans about their pay, cheating Mr. House, and almost killing her before stealing the Platinum Chip. As for the fucking … it was still her forte. 

“You're right,” the words burned like cheap liquor. “This, the Tops, this is your empire. Lucky for me, then, that there’s so much more at stake,” she ducked under the counter, retrieving a pack of cards roughly tied with string. From there, she began to deal them out on the counter in small piles.

“I think this is more than a game of blackjack is gonna fix, doll,” she shook her head, still appearing to deal each card in turn, but upon closer inspection, she was actually sorting them into something that resembled suits, placing the clubs nearest the left of the counter, and the diamonds nearest the right. From there, she began to arrange them into a kind of hierarchy with the King of Clubs and the Ace above the rest, strangely enough omitting the Queen, then repeating the same with the diamonds. In the center of this bizarre set, she simply placed the Ace of Spades, the unused cards shuffled roughly back into a deck beside her left elbow, aside from two which were lying face down.

“There are three things we need to deal with,” She began, pointing to the cards she had laid out in turn. Benny looked bemused, unable to guess at what she was going to do next. “The Legion,” she pointed to the clubs. “The New California Republic,” she pointed to the diamonds. “And Mr. House,” she didn't need to point to the Ace of Spades, she knew, but did it for effect. “Oh, and then there's us. You,” this time, she picked one of the two cards she had placed face down up. The Joker – the Wild Card. He didn't look the least bit affronted by the suggestion. It wasn't really a strange coincidence that she had chosen the Joker to represent him, but her reasons were perhaps a little superficial. “And me,” she picked up the second card, revealing the Queen of Hearts. She expected the quip, waited for it, even.

“Now, now, baby, don't go getting ahead of yourself,” he grinned, and her hand hovered at the waistline of her gown. Business first, the rest would have to wait.

“Not the card I’d have chosen, but it’s close enough. Anyways,” she placed the two cards beneath the Ace of Spades. “First, we have to get rid of House, but we can't do that without the Chip, so really, our first target has to be Caesar,” she placed two fingers on the King of Clubs and slid it towards Benny, leaving him to watch as it fell off the opposite edge of the counter. “But that doesn't mean the Legion's gone even if we do deal with him. See the Ace?” he nodded, and she moved the Ace above the Clubs, where the King had been. “Even with Caesar gone, the Legion won’t be. His Legate, Lanius. They call him the Monster of the East, so something tells me he’s going to be a tough fucker for us to get rid of,” she did not mistake the way he arched one brow, no doubt wondering why she kept saying ‘we’ and ‘us,’ under the assumption that he was in on it as much as she was. He didn't really have a choice, after all. “What?” she called his bluff.

“Nothing, honey baby, it's just, I'm wondering how much of this is ‘we’,” she couldn't resist grinning at his comment. How much of the whole thing was them in it together? Most, because like it or not, she needed him, and he needed her just as much. The rest? Well, that was just a convenient bonus.

“As much as we can handle. You've got the brains, and I've got the breasts, shall we say,” of course, that was not it at all, but it sure shut him up, leaving her to turn her attention towards the Ace of Spades. “Then we got House and I’m thinking that once we're in, it should be as plain sailing as it can be. So, assuming we get Caesar out of the way, House,” she flicked the card off the counter, just as she had done with the King of Clubs. “Shouldn't be a problem. That just leaves the NCR. I really don't want to make enemies out of them, but I will if I have to … so leave the NCR to me,” he was following, but there was a dull look in his eye, resignation. It was going to be her way or the highway, he’d worked that out already and she was going to make damn sure of it, “But the Legion can have their land. The NCR won't get what they want out of Vegas, but I can get what we need out of them. And by the time we finish off House we'll have an arsenal of Securitrons at our disposal, so the more the merrier, huh?” he didn’t look convinced, pressing his palms together, brow furrowed – she’d have to work harder to win him over, clearly. Her eyes lingered on the playing cards still left on the counter for a moment, before she slowly made her way around to the other side, setting herself down upon the sofa, letting the neckline of her gown gap open just enough to keep him interested. “At the end of the day, I'd rather have the NCR on our side than the Legion; besides, I wouldn't exactly say we're in their good books, as it is. But ... Ben-man, you've been kind of quiet. Don’t I have you convinced yet?” she pretended to play at the hem that fluttered about her bare thighs, a new bandage wrapped tightly around the wound on her left leg. She watched him carefully as he tugged at his collar then smoothed out imaginary creases on his shirt, suit jacket hanging limply off a chair in the corner of the room.

“You've got this all locked up, don't you, pussycat?” he was trying his best not to sound bitter. He settled, stretching his arms out across the back of the sofa, doing his best to relax even though he looked as though his black tie was choking him. She nodded slowly, a grin spreading out across her face, her hands moving up, threatening to untie the belt that held her gown closed. She would drive him wild before the night was out, and they both knew it – just how wild, however, remained to be seen.

“What can I say? You got me excited ...” her voice trailed off as she got to her feet again, giving the belt a gentle tug and allowing the gown to fall open, shrugging it off almost listlessly. She had him. His eyes roved over her body even though he tried to look away when she met his gaze. Tonight, everything was on the table. He didn't even bother to unbutton his shirt or loosen his tie, even as she approached, placing one leg delicately on the sofa, letting him take in the view.

“Well, all you gotta do is say the word, doll,” there it was. While he might have liked to think himself infallible, in control while in his own domain, she knew better – if only from the way in which his voice wavered. She raised an eyebrow purposefully, slipping back strands of her bleached hair behind her ears.

“Oh? And what word is that?” she vaguely recalled mentioning something about ‘handling his package’ the last time, even blushed slightly at the memory. She wouldn’t be able to come up with anything quite so original, this time.

It was clear that he had no idea what the word was because he relented, his right hand grasping at the knot in his tie, tugging at it. She felt his eyes upon her as she moved backwards, pacing slowly and deliberately, luring him to bed – not that he needed much encouragement.

“You want me show you the Tops, hey, pussycat?” of course he couldn't resist – what man could? It was a fact that she had reassured herself with for years. He hauled himself to his feet, striding quickly towards her, snaking an arm around her waist and leading her through the door to the bedroom. He ran his hands along the length of her torso, cupping her breasts, fingertips teasing at her nipples before following an invisible trail.

“I’m all yours,” she purred as they fell back heavily upon the mattress. This wasn’t entirely true, but it spurred him on: before long, they would each be grappling for power, because for them, sex was no different than anything else. She just had to make sure she stayed in control long enough to gain the upper hand, fingers fumbling at his tie, snatching roughly at the buttons on his shirt, trying to make sure he would soon be as vulnerable as she was. His mouth crashed against hers, though neither of them closed their eyes, just in case the other was planning to strike.

His shirt hung open as her hands groped at his belt, skill or habit, it was all the same. NCR uniforms were the worst. Too many catches, too many buckles and more often than not, the soldiers were far too eager, it was rarely ever worth it; here, she felt Benny tugging away from her, leaving kisses across her cheek, down her neck, over the gentle curves of her breasts and lower. He pulled her roughly towards the edge of the bed, kneeling, watching, her legs draped over his shoulders.

“Like what you see?” she teased, feeling the warmth of his breath against her thighs, murmuring a low ‘uh-huh’ in confirmation before he moved in, pressing his lips to her flesh and eliciting a moan that seemed to rise up out of nowhere, catching her while her guard was down. His tongue followed a course he had already mapped some weeks before, and Lola felt the muscles in her thighs twitch, electrified, panting out shallow breaths and gasping … he was going to make her _beg_ of all things. He was going to make her beg and she didn’t care because all she wanted was more; she wove her hands through his thicket of dark hair, no longer slicked and gelled back, urging him on, every moan, every sigh causing him to speed up or slow down or withdraw for a split second, trailing kisses between her legs, sliding in his fingers before following them with his mouth, continuing. She pleaded for him not to stop, lost in the moment … and to think, she had wanted to be the one in control.

It had been a while since a man had left her shuddering, her nerves working overtime, involuntary spasms that inched her closer and closer to the edge. Her blonde hair was plastered to her face, and as he pushed her towards an indelible climax, she arched her back, her body alight.

“Damn, doll,” he seemed satisfied as he withdrew, unfastening his belt and letting his pants fall to the floor before stepping out of his underwear unceremoniously. “I think the cats down the hall heard you were screaming so loud,” dizzy, Lola lay still for a moment, allowing herself to recover. She hadn’t seen _that_ coming.

As he lowered himself onto the bed beside her, she ran a hand across his chest, slowly moving downwards, thinking that he would gladly let her continue uninterrupted but instead he wrapped his hand around her wrist and led it above her head.

“My turn, pussycat, you dig?” His voice was low as he said it, edging up the bed as he moved on top of her effortlessly, sliding himself inside her because he could no doubt resist any longer.

She’d been on top last time. She’d pinned him to the bed, the entire encounter taking place on her terms; his hands had explored her body willingly, but only because she’d allowed it, rolling off and taking a different approach whenever the mood took her.

The two of them moved to the same rhythm. Usually, it was a means to an end, she knew the score and what she stood to gain by going through with it. Here, she noticed the things that could often be easily ignored; how he watched her closely, interpreting how she reacted and how she did the same, reading his expressions to know when to run her fingertips along the curve of his back, across his shoulders, digging her nails in just enough to make it count. She wrapped her legs around him, using them to pull him in closer until he paused, guiding her right leg upwards. She hooked it over his shoulder; when he resumed, each thrust took him deeper and he grunted appreciatively.

Before, their encounter had been halting, each waiting for the other to make a wrong move. She’d half expected another shot to the head and he’d no doubt been waiting for her to press a blade to his throat, but these moments never came and together they shifted into an uneasy acceptance that what they shared would be nothing more than a fling. He didn’t need to know she’d had ulterior motives, because they hadn’t been the ones he was thinking of.

Now, she felt him, the world falling away around them. For once, she wasn’t acting. She watched as he concentrated, knots of muscles passing beneath her fingers. He increased his speed gradually and she gave into it, begging again, _keep going_. Every so often, gasps and groans escaped his lips, the two of them entwined.

She could tell from the way his expression shifted that he was getting close; men had different ways of sending these same signals and she’d seen enough of them to know when they were caught in the throes of an orgasm. She’d always expected him to be the type to shout out words she didn’t quite understand, this other language she so often had to cut through to interpret his real meaning. Instead, he retreated inside himself, as though this was the one thing he wanted to keep somewhat private.

Lola increased the frequency of her own moans, huffing out ragged breaths and sending him further towards his climax as she did so. She _enjoyed_ this. When they paced around each other, wondering who was going to shoot first, when one would inevitably betray the other, it was a game, but this was something else entirely. She let down her defenses with him. Ironic. He was the last man on earth she should have been willing to show her vulnerability.

He took in one last shuddering breath and Lola felt the warmth between her legs as he rolled off, his chest rising and falling.

“That was …”

“Eighteen-karat as you’d say, right Ben-Man?” It was all he could do to wave one listless hand, laying there, prone. Nestled in crumpled sheets, she wanted to stretch her whole body out and watch him all night, just in case he ran out on her again, leaving nothing but a note.


	6. We Are Legion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the night before; but all is not as it seems on The Strip. Please be aware that this chapter contains non-consensual sex.

“Sorry, Ben-Man. My turn to stand you up.” She whispered, placing the note on the pillow and checking to see that she had everything. Her previous run-in with the Legion had left her wanting, and while she had managed to recover her brush gun, she’d lost a lot more weaponry that she’d come to depend on out in the Wastes.

While she didn't intend on straying too far out of the New Vegas area, there were a few things she needed from the Lucky 38; retrieving her brush gun from The Tops’ counter would only cause an unnecessary stir, so she resolved to take her back-up weapons, the ones usually left stashed in a trunk but rarely touched. A change of clothes wouldn’t go amiss, either, her outfit still bearing signs of the brawl they’d been lucky to escape alive.

Without her weapons, Lola felt exposed. Sure, on The Strip it was rare to see anyone so obviously armed with the exception of the NCR troopers that patrolled it. Outside of the casinos, she still felt compelled to arm herself with something, having learned to expect the unexpected but here; she felt just as vulnerable as she had at the Fort, knowing she’d surrendered almost every weapon on her being. There was something unsettling about it: she was a little girl again, lost, curious, inexperienced.

She closed her eyes, breathed in deeply, opened them again. The back of her neck prickled, hairs on end. Someone was following her. Men so often wore the same shades of black, white and orange around here, but she could tell the outsiders by coldness in their eyes and a staunch awareness of the excess surrounding them. Not now. She wasn’t ready.

One man twitched his hand towards something metallic, hidden in the pocket of a jacket he looked uneasy in. He nodded to another, a little way behind him, who caught up, eyes fixated on her. Lola shivered. She could try and fool herself that these were just two thugs hoping to get lucky, but she knew better; they were bad news. Legion.

She tried to keep her focus by staring directly ahead, but she knew they were catching up to her. Before long, she could hear each man breathing on either side of her. They gripped her arms and held onto them tightly, making sure that she could not move any more than she needed to, just enough to be able to walk.

“We'll kill you if you try to escape,” wouldn’t that be something. Lola was familiar with point blank bullets, but luck could only favor her so much and she figured hers was starting to run out. She didn't scream because she knew it was futile, and because something else stirred within, willing her not to. Her pride wouldn’t let her be the woman who needed saving; that, and she didn’t want to have to deal with a gunfight breaking out. It would only throw off her plans.

She’d expected the Legion to come for her, but she hadn’t expected them to find her so quickly. As they passed the gate into Freeside, gun pressed to her ribs, she thought of Benny, no doubt still asleep; she should have stayed there with his arms draped around her. Then again, perhaps it was better like this, with no chance of the Legion searching The Strip’s casinos for her, changing Vegas more than they had any right to.

“You're a wanted woman,” he hissed, but said nothing more as they marched her through the streets, nobody turning their heads or really seeming to care. She would have expected the Kings to recognize one of their allies, but noted how early it was, and how, for all intents and purposes these men looked like any others who might have fallen out of the Atomic Wrangler with a particularly pretty girl in tow. It was not until they were outside the gate, the three Kings who usually guarded it suspiciously absent, that they stopped and shoved her to the floor.

“Caesar shows no quarter to the ones who betray him. He did, however, acknowledge that your death would be a waste. How right he was,” they wouldn’t dare disagree with their mighty Caesar, anyway. She glanced up at both of them, not yet ready to relent, looking squarely at their leering faces. She resisted the urge to spit at them only because she valued her own life. “A woman of your ilk would bear fine children,” they didn’t advance upon her. Instead, one kept his gun pointed directly at her face, looking startled as her smirk grew. They didn't yet know her secret, the thing that had sent her wandering towards the Mojave in the first place almost two decades ago.

“You don't fear your fate?” he questioned, doing his best to keep his composure. She wouldn't tell them. She might survive if she didn't.

“I know what you're going to do to me.”

“And yet you don't run from us?”

“Why would I? You … you are Legion, and I'm just some whore you picked up on the Strip,” it was a dangerous comment to make, but she couldn’t resist trying to talk her way out of the situation, just like she always did. They already had her. They were circling, prowling like hungry coyotes, deciding who would have their way with her first. She had been with more men than she cared to count, but this was different; a situation she’d told herself she’d never again find herself in.

The thought crossed her mind quick as gunfire: maybe it would be better to end it now. Lola dismissed it just as quickly, holding fast to the glowing lights of Vegas in her mind, the prospect that it could be hers if she could just survive this, if she could just find a way. Someone would notice she was missing eventually; Cass or Boone or Veronica … or Benny. Perhaps they saw her expression change because they swooped in, one still holding the gun, the other grabbing a handful of her blonde hair in his fist and forcing her face close to his. His stale breath made her stomach churn.

“The decadence of the Strip may have taught you to play games well, whore, but do not pretend that word of your actions hasn't spread across the Wasteland. It's how we found you, after all,” damn it. She bit down hard on her bottom lip, wincing as he tugged at her hair; unable to move, the light flickered and receded from her eyes. The legionary holding the gun tossed it to one side and Lola watched his shadow as it approached, slipping something cold around her neck. She’d seen women in cages wearing them at Cottonwood Cove. Every time she took a breath, she felt her throat press against it.

“Think of this as our reward for collecting our bounty,” they were no longer speaking to her. With the collar on, they didn’t need guns to threaten her, just the suggestion that they could detonate it at any time. 

He let go of her hair and followed up with a kick that connected painfully with her hip. She collapsed and felt rough hands frantically pulling at her jeans, nothing at all like it had been last night; this wasn’t about sex, it was about power, and while Lola noted that she and Benny liked to vie for control inside the bedroom and outside of it, there was never any real harm intended. They’d moved on.

Here in the dirt, however, she bit back cries as he entered her dry, suffocating under his weight, willing herself not to think or feel, just to become a shell, something not quite living. Lola tried to detach herself from it and focus on the pink of the dawn sky spreading out above, even as he bit and scratched and had to be warned not to rough her up too much. She’d been here before. The shot to the head, it had dulled the memory but here it was painfully refocused. She didn’t know how she’d survived it, but she did know she was strong because of what they had done. Because of how she’d always refused to let it destroy her.

She thought of Benny, perhaps stirring awake and reading the note she had left.

_Sorry, Ben-Man. I swear, I won't be long, and trust me, you won't have to save my ass from the Legion like I did yours._

Hindsight would have been useful when writing that.

_Think of this as going out for some groceries._

She would have to thank Veronica for that turn of phrase, if she got out of this mess.

_I'll be back before you know it, and then we can get back to the plan. Legion’s still got most of my best weapons, so I need to figure out a way to compensate myself for them._

Not like it mattered now. She heard the familiar rattling of caps colliding with one another in the pockets of her jeans he’d cast aside – they were going to root through her belongings, too?

_I'll be at the Lucky 38 for a while. My pals need to know as much as I can tell them about the situation. Don’t go getting impatient. Enjoy being back at The Tops for a while._

Would he go looking for her there? If he did, there was no way Victor would let him in, and she wasn’t sure everyone would take kindly to him being there, either. Arcade, reasonable. Boone, indifferent. Cass … that encounter could go either way.

_By the way, tonight it's my turn to show you 'the Tops'._

An unintentionally false promise. The relief she felt was fleeting; his weight shifted, and she could breathe as deeply as the metallic collar would allow. Her eyes were glazed over, distant, knowing that she couldn’t run. As one finished, it was the other legionary’s turn to grab her by the hair, dragging her limply to her knees and bringing his face in close to her ear so that when he spoke, he showered her with pinprick drops of spittle.

“Prove your worth, poisonous bitch.”


	7. The Side Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benny ponders Lola's sudden leave of absence, while Swank offers his own less-than-helpful observations.

Benny hadn’t been at all surprised by the broad’s absence when he’d woken up – she was a courier, after all, a wanderer by nature, not used to staying in one place for too long. What had surprised him was the note, and the fact that she’d even taken the time to pen it.

Like it or not, Benny needed Lola. She’d made all the connections he’d strived to cultivate for years, and it was almost unfair how effortlessly she’d done it. He felt the familiar pang of jealousy rise up at the thought that someone had a leg up that he didn’t, then dismissed it just as quickly since he’d had a lot more than just a leg up last night.

There were things about the blonde – her charlies and the way she made his toes curl aside – that he liked, even admired. She was tough as deathclaw hide, relentless, and he always breathed a sigh of relief whenever he reminded himself that she was on his side, at least for the time being. There were also things he didn’t like so much; that same determination made her stubborn as a brahmin bull and she always had to have things go her way, damn the consequences.

Benny folded the note and slipped it under his pillow, at a loss for what else to do with it. A trail of his clothes led back through to the lounge area of his suite, disheveled, but he pulled each item on as he retraced his steps from the night before, not to be caught dead without his signature attire on. He liked the suit because it set him apart from the other Chairmen; with it on, nobody could be left in any doubt that he was the boss, the real high-roller around The Strip. Except now, just maybe his reputation had been tarnished and he had nobody to blame but himself for it.

Finally, he understood the true meaning of shooting oneself in the foot.

Still, Benny was no fool. He’d had a plan and he’d stuck with it right until the end; though, as he knotted his black tie he mused that he might not have shot the broad had he known she’d turn out to be so much trouble. She’d looked up at him with her brown eyes glittering, pleading with him without fire or fury. A low, yellow moon hung bright and her curves had been silhouetted against it – even then he’d thought it a shame that he had to get rid of her in such a way, but he’d come too far to give up on his goal. Risked too much. So, he’d pressed the barrel of his gun, Maria, to her skull and she’d closed those brown eyes; before he pulled the trigger, he took no more than six paces back so as not to make a mess of her pretty face. He’d at least owed her that much.

Benny glanced at the playing cards strewn across the floor as he shrugged on his checkered jacket. That was it. She had it all planned out, he didn’t even have a say. While he’d been all tied up – quite literally – she’d been plotting her next move and what it meant for the Mojave. Plotting a chain of events that he’d put into motion, hijacking the plans that he’d worked so hard to enact. He had to wonder if it would always have played out this way, with her sitting pretty as the head of Vegas, gunshot or no. Had she always been so ambitious, or had he made her want for something she’d never wanted before?

“Another broad can’t stand your company, Benny?” just what he needed. Swank leaned into the doorframe, arms folded, face split into a smug grin.

“Can it, Swank. Did you see where she was headed?” he didn’t much like the expression on Swank’s face, it suggested he knew something Benny didn’t. He reached for the lighter for no reason in particular; when he’d first noticed it missing after leaving the Khans in Boulder City, he’d thought it lost forever, and he’d had no time to go back for it. He didn’t have any reason to light it, but it provided a small comfort that he’d previously taken for granted.

“Now, what would a gasser like you want with knowing where a broad like that went?” Benny wrapped his fingers tightly around the lighter’s metallic surface. What he wouldn’t do for a cigarette right now. He hadn’t yet replaced the pack he normally kept tucked inside his jacket pocket.

He couldn’t reveal the real reason he wanted to know where she’d disappeared to – she’d left a tantalizing promise at the end of her note, and he wanted to know more. Until then, he could let her replace her lost belongings, but why this feeling that crept along the back of his neck, hinting that something had gone awry?

“No reason. Just wondering when she’s coming back, we’ve got business, you dig?” he tried to seem casual as he said this, not ready to let Swank know what had gone on between them last night; it was strictly need-to-know and his right hand man most certainly did not need to know it. He watched as Swank let out a heavy, theatrical sigh, grin still plastered across his face.

Under normal circumstances, Benny and Swank were close enough cats, they’d ridden together long enough. Sure, they had their disagreements, and never so much so as when it came to women. As the leader of the pack, Benny always got first pick, this was just how it was; he knew Swank settled into an uneasy silence whenever the boss was seen disappearing with a particularly attractive broad in tow, even if all they did up in his suite was talk. Sometimes, this was all it took. Sometimes, it was nice enough just to be seen with a sharp-dressed woman hanging off his arm.

“Business, huh? Well, that broad has quite the side business going, let me tell you,” at this, Benny raised an eyebrow and Swank must have caught it because he straightened up, moving further into the room. “Not the highest roller, though. Lost more caps than she’s made in this place,” something flickered behind his eyes as he said this.

“This side business …”

“Ah, nothing for you to worry about, boss. But, just ‘cause she’s got white blonde hair don’t mean she’s an angel, dig?” was that it? He already knew there was no way he was the first, and Benny was kidding himself if he thought he’d be the last, either: it was just the way she did things.

“You saying what I think you’re saying, Swank?” but of course he was. Why else would he still have that smug grin on his face?

“I’m just saying that if you think that broad is all yours and yours alone, you’re a real Harv,” it wasn’t the comment that irked him, although one time or another Benny would have had a blade pressed to Swank’s neck whip-fast for saying something like it. “Just ask her about her side business next time you see her, boss,” Swank didn’t leave him a chance to respond as he turned away and exited the suite, leaving Benny staring open-mouthed after him. He turned his attention back towards the bedroom, thinking of the note tucked under the pillow; hadn’t she said she’d be over at the Lucky 38? Maybe she hadn’t even left The Strip.

Not the type to second guess an idea once it crossed his mind, Benny made his way down to the casino floor, aware of the eyes that turned towards him as he made for the entrance. Whispers followed him: the boss was back, but did he mean business? Where had he disappeared off to? Where was he splitting to now? Their tone bordered on mocking, and he was never quite sure of his standing with him employees or his ‘family’ as House called them. There was barely anything familial about their relationship any longer, the divide growing wider by the day. Strange enough, Benny also suspected that by contrast the Chairmen were the closest family on The Strip.

The damn robot was still waiting outside once he got to the Lucky 38, not that he’d expected anything else; he’d been under no assumptions that he’d just be able to sneak inside and find her there. She’d mentioned something about letting her friends know a little more about what they were planning, but did they all know about what he’d done to her? If they did, he had a feeling they wouldn’t take too kindly to him being there. Still, the Securitron didn’t seem programmed to shoot him on sight, so that was a start.

“How can I help ya, pardner?” the face flickered on screen, a cowboy in a white hat. An Old World image, no doubt, though why House had picked a cowboy for this one was beyond Benny.

“I’m looking for the blonde broad, Lola. She cashed out earlier this morning, and I’m thinking she headed this way,” he should have brought the note with him. A cigarette hung from the cowboy’s frozen-in-time mouth and Benny was once again reminded of his present lack of white sticks; he’d have to do something about that sooner rather than later.

“As a matter of fact, I have. She was headed … that-a-way,” the Securitron – Victor, as she’d called it in her note – waved one metallic limb in the direction of the entrance gate. “Was with a couple of mighty fine looking fellas. Looked to me like they were making a deal of sorts, looked all kinds of close to her,” Benny glanced around. Victor wouldn’t have been able to tell if the men were allies or not, not if she’d gone with them willingly – and why would she be inclined to do that? Unless she was plotting something else, something that didn’t involve him, at least not directly. An assassination, perhaps? But then why not let the Legion get it over with back at the Fort?

“You didn’t happen to catch what those cats were jawing about did you, pallie?”

“Can’t say I did, pardner. They made quicker tracks than you did last time I saw ya leavin’,” he scowled as the robot said this and turned away without thanking the Securitron for his efforts. A pointless venture, really. He should have known she was up to more than she had let on. That didn’t make sense, either, though. Why leave a note; to throw him off her scent, make everything seem normal while she secretly planned her revenge? No, one time, one fling, he could understand, but another night … that was more than a means to an end. Only last night she’d been telling him she needed him, risking life and limb to make it back to The Strip safely; there were plenty of other ways to keep up an act that didn’t involve a gunfight.

Benny frowned as he turned back towards The Tops, finding no comfort in the prospect of looking out over Vegas. Other days, he was content to watch as The Strip came alive beneath him, but he had more on his mind; it was then that it hit him.

Maybe it wasn’t the broad who was out for revenge.

It added up. Two strangers walking close enough to make a deal: or close enough to conceal a gun. In and out, before anyone had the chance to notice them, quiet enough not to hear a scream. They were audacious, taking her in broad daylight, but they were smart because this was the last time of day anyone would think of to do it, seeing two men and a lady intoxicated by the bright Vegas lights, spent out, deciding to leave their gambling for another day.

As he sidled back into The Tops, feeling eyes turned towards him once again, he considered it: if she was safe, she’d more than likely be back before long, or else expecting him to follow her headfirst into a trap. If she really needed help, then there were other people better suited to helping her – he was a man of tailored suits and wing-tip shoes, now, not nearly as handy with a weapon as he had been years ago. There simply weren’t any answers to the questions he was asking, and then there was the matter of the side business Swank had mentioned – what was it? Some elaborate set-up to earn as many caps as she could, or something else entirely?

He made his way towards the bar, kidding himself that the booze would make him think more clearly; if nothing else it would loosen him up a little, take the edge off, help the day pass quickly. He mouthed the words ‘hit me’ to the bartender who immediately started pouring a shot of amber liquid, sliding it over for him to gulp down, Benny slamming his glass on the bar as a way of asking for another.

Goddamn broad. He didn’t know why his face felt hot at the prospect of her having her way with other men, bedding his employees as quick as she batted her eyelashes. Had she bedded Swank, too? Had he made her beg and moan the same as she had done with him last night? He noticed the sweat that began to blossom on his brow, how his tie all of a sudden felt tightly wrapped around his neck; all this for a troublesome broad. But she was a broad who knew what she was doing, who had plans and connections to rival his own.

He needed her, that much was true. What troubled Benny was that he _wanted_ her just as much.


	8. Orange Colored Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enslaved by the Legion, Lola finds herself in a desperate situation and long-buried memories begin to bubble to the surface. Some sensitive content in this chapter.

One time or another, she’d been beautiful. _Lucky_ , people had always said when they examined her features, lips set in full, soft pink curves, eyes wide and brown; she was the image of a pre-War screen vixen in a time where movies didn’t exist anymore. Her body was her weapon, it had been for years. Now, Lola was held together through sheer force of will and spite for those who had put her here.

They kept her in a cage all her own, away from the other slaves – even held in contempt, she was still a celebrity. She would have smirked at the thought, but even doing that hurt; she moved her lips and tasted coppery blood, her jaw aching, one eye swollen and throbbing. Her body was a mottled patchwork of bruises that joined her existing wounds and scars, her knees scraped red raw where she’d been dragged across the ground more times than she cared to count.

Every time she moved, the collar around her neck cut in just a little, but enough that she noticed it. She couldn’t forget it was there. She bit back a caustic laugh; with it on, at least they couldn’t throttle her, though what they did instead was no better. Still, it wasn’t as though she could run, because she knew the gruesome reality of what would happen if she did, had seen the headless bodies when out wandering, particularly when she had once strayed too close to Nelson on her way to Camp Forlorn Hope.

In the dirt, she drew thin, straight lines to count the days, which she could only track by the sky as it changed – time was lost to her, sped up and slowed down as it needed to when she was dragged from one tent to another. Each day that passed, she waited to see the burning sky, orange and red as though someone had set even the clouds aflame. When the sky lit up like this, she knew that one day would soon collapse into the next and the cycle would start over again. Right now, there were eleven lines drawn in the dirt for what she guessed amounted to eleven days. Not even a month, not even two weeks, stretched out interminably by her pain.

Even the visits from the guards – hourly? Half-hourly? – no longer surprised her, though she shadows that fell across the ground caused her to shudder involuntarily. She’d learned to keep her mouth shut most of the time because if not, they’d be sure to make her bleed, and she’d had to resist the urge to spit crimson at her captors on more than a few occasions. It would do nothing to help her situation. Sure would have felt satisfying, though.

“So, you’ve finally learned to tremble, bitch,” tremble, but not cry. She would never cry. If eleven days really had elapsed, they would have noticed she was gone. If they’d noticed she was gone, she could only hope they cared enough to do something about it.

“Your forces have weakened me,” she knew how to play their game, too. He still struck her for daring to talk back to him, a swift blow to the cheek that left it angry, red and aching. She fell to the ground but only spent a moment there before he grabbed her by the hair – always, they grabbed her by the hair – and started dragging her away from her cage, out into the open where the dust was thick and the air suffocating. Above, the sky split into shades of pink and blue, clouds swirling, illuminated yellow by a sun already half sunk below the horizon. Twelve days.

He forced her along a path she’d walked before, upright, then, a guest. She saw the tent rise up like it had before, the center point of the Fort drawn in the same shades of crimson and gold. She’d half expected Caesar to want his turn sooner, before the rest of them had managed to defile her. Perhaps this was all part of his plan, though; ensure she had been made to suffer and make her suffer even more for her sins against the Legion, more than any other slave held in the vicinity. Lurid favor after lurid favor, and she knew it would eventually end in her death. This much was inevitable.

“Did you think we wouldn’t find you?” she’d barely even hit the ground before she heard him speak, voice still surprisingly even. He was flanked by more Praetorians in place of the ones she and Benny had killed, and this time they were accompanied by dogs who snapped and snarled restlessly, their pointed teeth bared. On all sides, the Legion’s elite leered down at her, not prepared to show her any quarter. “Six members of my Praetorian guard. I was determined that you’d pay for it, and for releasing the traitor, Benny. So, tell me, whore: have you had enough yet?”

Eleven days, almost twelve gone by, hour after hour, she ached. Battered and bruised, but they were all faceless. She couldn’t bring herself to commit their most personal details to memory.

“I’ve been through worse,” even Lola was surprised at how casually the comment escaped her bloodied lips. How much worse, however, they didn’t need to know. “But that’s not why you brought me here, is it? Wouldn’t you like to have your way with me before you slaughter me?”

Why was he wincing? It wasn’t the first time Lola had seen this expression on his face, and it staggered her just as much as it had done the last time. She watched as he brought two fingers up to his skull before throwing the gesture away quickly.

“What makes you think I'd want anything with the likes of you?” he hardly sounded angry. He spoke with his teeth gritted together, measured without fury, and Lola noticed how there was light missing from his eyes, as though his senses were suddenly dulled by pain.

She couldn’t move from where she knelt because of the guards watching her every move, waiting for their orders. She tugged at the neckline of her itchy slave rags, fingers brushing against the collar that dug into her flesh. She shivered.

“Why wouldn't you? You can beat me all you want. I just thought that if your men are allowed to have me, you should get to have your turn, too,” he groaned, this time, fingers still resting against his forehead; like a wounded beast, he lurched in his seat, throwing the briefest of glances towards his guards who seemed to know what to do just from this gesture. Caesar rose from his throne, and it wasn’t long before Lola felt herself being yanked to her feet by the Praetorian on her left, dogs still growling impatiently.

She’d seen him beckon, but there was no way she could have convinced him. Lola followed obediently, too distracted by the apparent ease with which she’d seduced a man who had so far seemed immovable, although as she drew level with the drapes that separated his room from the rest of the tent, she saw that things were not quite as they seemed.

An abandoned Autodoc stood at the foot of the bed that Caesar eased himself into; incongruous, given the Legion’s mistrust of technology. Guards breathed down her neck, but maybe, just maybe … it wasn’t unheard of for ailing men to die in the heat of the moment. With the right amount of adrenaline coursing through his veins, there was every chance it would prove to be too much for him. She was not yet sure how she felt about assassinating Caesar, not with the specter of Lanius looming on the horizon. His death might not shatter the Legion so completely and then it would all be for nothing.

Caesar looked anguished as he lay prone in bed, pained by something that she could not see. She was no medic but knew what she needed to necessitate her survival in the harsh wilds of the Mojave. Surely, they weren’t expecting her to operate on him. It couldn’t be. This was all about doing what she did best, no matter how violently it made her stomach turn. She made to climb onto the bed and was instantly pulled back.

“Y-your … execution date … it's set,” he croaked, and Lola's eyes widened. No. She had had it all worked out. She wasn’t ready to be strung up on a cross for all to see, she had too much left to accomplish; there would be no miracle sent her way, and no saving grace this time, it seemed. Whether she ran or not, she was doomed to die either way.

Before she could respond, the guards were dragging her away again until they reached the middle of the tent. Lola closed her eyes, doubled over, her limbs shaking fiercely; so that was it, then? She heard the familiar sound of armor clattering to the ground, but it seemed to only reach her after a short delay, refracted, the world around her spinning at the news she had been dealt. She felt them removing her rags, but she was neither warm nor cold, just suspended in a time and place that didn’t seem to exist anymore.

Her matted blonde hair fell past her cheeks, knees and elbows rubbing against the canvas. Fingers dug into her hips, gripped tightly, and she let out a pained gasp even though she’d promised herself she wouldn’t. For the first time in almost two weeks, and perhaps stretching further back through the annals of her past, she felt tears stinging at her eyes. She couldn’t cry. She couldn’t betray herself like that. No matter what they put her through, she could not cry.

She’d have to go down fighting. Now she knew it was coming, Lola would have to kill as many as she could before she went down. If nobody else was going to save her, then she would have to grant herself a final reprieve, the knowledge that she intended to take as many of the bastards out with her. If she was going to die, she would make sure many others did, the ones stripping away her dignity and making her whimper like a sick dog.

The elite all took turns. She’d been passed around before, with the promise of death whispered on the wind, but back then, she had fought her way out of it. She’d killed for the first time, only just sixteen years old, determined to survive no matter how much of her humanity it cost; but of course, it had ended up costing her so much more, in so many different ways. It was worse, now, not because of the collar and not because her demise seemed so inescapable, but because all of the guards forcing themselves upon her were focused and purposeful in their assaults. They were not wired on Jet or Psycho, out of their minds on a cocktail of Chems and poison glands, snorting whatever they could get their hands on. They were all sober.

They were all in control.

Still, she bit back the tears, so hard that she tasted her own blood. She wasn’t going anywhere without a fight, even if she was guaranteed not to make it out alive.


	9. One for the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some of Lola's companions briefly reflect on the time they have spent with her, while at the same time preparing themselves for what lies ahead.

Boone’s prowess as a sniper, at least when he’d been at the top of his game, had been second to none. Not that he was prepared to discredit the combined skill of the entire First Recon as it had been back then, but all of it was behind him now; First Recon, Manny Vargas, Bitter Springs, Carla … Carla, and the tiny life that had been growing inside her. It all seemed so far off.

Privately, he thumbed the withered scrap of paper in his left pocket, silently swearing that he would never forget either of them. He wasn’t prepared to let the memories he had turn to dust.

He’d seen Lola for what she was as soon as she blew into Novac like a searing gust of desert wind. Watched from his post as she’d marched along the shattered ground, commanding everything around her. Trained his scope on her because the sense of purpose she carried with her reminded him of the Khans that had gone as quickly as they’d arrived, and the man who accompanied them, agitated by something. The same man who’d rallied him, with the idea of launching an assault on Caesar’s forces, and that was enough for Boone to agree to, even if it still seemed stupid.

Lola, she’d been all kinds of persuasive once he’d met with her face to face and realized there was more to the story than he’d thought. She’d promised him things that he’d long since dismissed as being impossible, a bit between her teeth that had led to … well, it had led to something. Boone still didn’t know if it was his salvation, but at least he’d been the one to put a bullet between Jeannie May Crawford’s eyes for what she did, and that, in part, was thanks to the woman determined to make it to Vegas in one piece.

He hadn’t been expecting redemption, but had followed her because any woman who had risen from a shallow grave after having two bullets lodged in her skull was bound to be followed by all kinds of trouble; trouble meant stray bullets meant a chance at taking one at the right moment and letting everything drift away, bleeding out, waiting to let go. In her absence, what he was left with was a renewed sense of purpose; together, they’d fought their way through nests of mutated beasts and cut through swathes of Fiends. They’d righted wrongs, and he’d survived every encounter. That had to mean something.

Boone numbly lifted the rifle from where it lay on the bed next to him, tweaking the sights and looking down the scope, a welcome distraction. Whatever they’d done, this new endeavor wasn’t really about Lola at all. Here, he was being given the kind of chance he never thought he’d get; whatever happened and however it ended, this was his chance to spill Legion blood, even though he knew it would never be enough to make up for what he’d had to do to Carla.

* * *

Veronica swiped at the air, bouncing on her feet, the Power fist held close to her face. It had gotten her this far, hadn’t it?

What awaited was no procurement mission, however. They were ill-prepared, a rag-tag band of outsiders preparing to launch an attack on an army, a Legion. She’d tagged along with Lola for long enough to learn that the woman collected outcasts, people with no purpose in the places they’d been stuck. At first, it had been fun but then she’d become more and more elusive, stopping by only for weapons and caps and then disappearing again, leaving them all to their own devices in the musty suite of the Lucky 38. Great.

Being stuck in a pre-War suite meant Veronica was out of touch, and this meant she was also out of practice. At first, it had been enough for her to request that ED-E simulate an attack for her to defend against, but as soon as Lola had seen the scorch marks on the wallpaper she’d put paid to it, failing to realize that this was just symptomatic of a lack of adventure. This was a shame, because they’d had their fair share of adventures and Veronica didn’t like to think that they were done with them so soon.

The woman heaved a sigh and made her way towards the refrigerator containing an inordinate amount of Nuka-Cola. She wasn’t even the biggest fan of the taste, but Veronica popped the cap off one of the glass bottles as an excuse for something to do, carefully placing the cap to one side. She downed the contents of the bottle, trying to think of a time when her life had been about more than drinking Nuka-Cola and swiping at imaginary enemies. It hadn’t been all that long ago. 

Their planned assault on the Legion probably amounted to little more than a death wish. The Legion meant trouble for the Mojave, though, so any small part she could play in forcing them back across the Colorado river was something. Veronica finished the drink in her hand and padded calmly through to her room, throwing open the wardrobe nearest to her bed.

There it hung. Falling softly in shades of gold and ivory, its folds swaying as she opened the wardrobe’s doors, Veronica sighed quietly, admiring it. She hoped she’d get a chance to wear it, soon. It had been no small act of charity; she’d watched as Lola had slipped the gown on and admired her reflection in the mirror, remarking how she looked like the women she had only seen in pre-War posters. When Veronica had later walked in to find it folded carefully on her bed, she’d been unable to contain her excitement and let out an audible squeal.

Was a dress worth almost certain death? Probably not, but a small act of kindness was.

* * *

When Arcade thought about what they were planning to do, only two words came to mind: suicide mission.

Nine of them against innumerable Legion. There would be no recourse; there was no chance of them sneaking in unnoticed, not if they wanted to go in armed, and they would certainly have to be armed. _Ex nihilo nihil fit_ , he supposed. By doing nothing, they’d achieve nothing.

He didn’t have much time for the Legion. If they somehow managed to gain control of the Mojave, or of Vegas, the consequences could only be dire. There were too many who stood to lose too much if the Mojave fell in the same way as the likes of Denver, Arizona, anything East of the river. The Republic weren’t much better, overextending themselves into a territory they had no business in, and as for House … Arcade shook his head slowly, pacing around his room, mapping his belongings. Collectively, they’d need all the help they could get.

Risking life and limb was in no way his idea of a good time, but Lola had refocused things for Arcade, brought back fragments of his past; at the Bunker, where she’d reminded him of all the good he could do without turning his back on old friends, ones who’d known him since before he’d been old enough to string a sentence together.

_Exitus acta probat_. He wasn’t much a fighter, but the end result would justify wading into battle, and he had his sights set not on the fight, but the role he played in it. He didn’t trust Benny in the slightest, but the man had imparted an interesting bit of knowledge as he’d been fighting to get him onside; it seemed as though the two of them had only escaped the Fort because Caesar was plagued with headaches, violent enough to stop him in his tracks. Perhaps Arcade wouldn’t have to do as much fighting as he’d thought he would.

Even so, he gathered together his plasma pistol, and enough power cells to make it count. _Praemonitus praemunitus_ , although in this case he was forearming himself precisely because he had been forewarned, no less by the man Lola had tracked halfway across the desert to exact her revenge on, only to discover that revenge hadn’t been what she’d wanted at all. It was the only explanation as to why the man in the checkered suit was still alive and had sweet-talked them into a meeting at The Tops, a rallying call, convinced the Legion had somehow taken her. He hadn’t been inclined to take Benny at his word the first time or the fifth, but as the days had worn on, as he’d read and reread the note initially penned for Benny’s eyes only; as he admitted that she’d never even made it to the Lucky 38 and as details of their escape from the Fort had come to light, the more probable this explanation had become.

Arcade didn’t trust Benny, but he was far too uneasy at the thought that the strongest woman he had come to know had been reduced to a Legion slave to let his mistrust guide him.

* * *

Were all of them idiots?

Cass sighed heavily as she leaned back in her seat, knocking back a shot glass full of whiskey before pouring herself another. She couldn’t believe they were all so willing to believe what the weasel, Benny, told them about Lola needing their help. The thought that the woman she’d wandered half the Wastes with needed to be rescued was nothing short of ridiculous; she’d seen her take down everything from a swarm of fire ants to three adult cazadores without so much as breaking a sweat. Legion or not, she was sure Lola would find a way out of it before long.

So why the nagging feeling that she wouldn’t? Maybe he did have a point, but it was bad enough that Lola seemingly had him on side, a fact that made the hairs on the back of Cass’ neck stand on end. It was bad enough that he’d somehow convinced her to trek over to The Tops, though whiskey always seemed a good enough incentive. It was bad enough that now he seemed to think that he was calling the shots, rallying them to fight when from the look of his suit, he hadn’t been in a _real_ fight in quite some time.

Why bother readying her rifle? She wasn’t about to answer to him.

She knocked back what could have been her third or thirty-sixth shot, she’d lost track, Rex sidling over to her as she did so. As she leaned down to run her fingers through the old dog’s fur, his brown eyes closing contentedly, she supposed she owed her friend – they were friends, after all, weren’t they? – something. A few bullets fired at Legionaries, maybe.

Maybe. That was all she could muster, because it still didn’t make sense. Lola had talked non-stop about the Platinum Chip and how it had nearly cost her her life; it made sense that she would make it known if she’d managed to retrieve it, too. Instead, there’d been no word, and now she was gone.

Cass heaved another sigh as Rex carried himself off to another corner of the room, sniffing idly at the musty carpets, at peeling wallpaper, still unfamiliar in his surroundings. She heard him whine from time to time, pining for attention, uncomfortable inside the gilded cage and she couldn’t blame him; she didn’t like it much, either.

Shot four or twenty-four, who was counting? After a while, the whiskey stopped burning as it went down and Cass was reduced to watching the shadows of the Lucky 38’s other inhabitants as they passed by; from Lily, whose hulking frame made her impossible to ignore to Raul, who she could only tell from his ragged breaths, all of them uneasily shoved together, forced to get along. Not that she didn’t sometimes break for the Strip, just for a change of scenery.

The Fort would be a change of scenery enough. That was supposing they weren’t all walking headfirst into a trap.

* * *

He wrung his hands, a regular fish out of water. Benny didn’t figure for a second that any of the assorted sharpshooters, Nightkin and whatever that floating, chirping orb was held him in particularly high regard; Lola had no doubt told them each in turn about what he’d done to her and so, he hadn’t been expecting sympathy when he’d hauled them all over to The Tops’ High-Roller suite, relayed his suspicions.

He hadn’t been expecting any of them to agree to help, either. She had some hold on them, but then, that didn’t surprise him at all – she’d won him over in her own way, hadn’t she? For whatever reason, they all chose to be here, and Benny didn’t think it was just the relative safety that The Strip provided them. 

Benny had lost count of how many times he’d told himself this wasn’t about her, but he couldn’t hide from it any longer; no matter how hard he tried to convince himself his only stake in this was the Chip, his bed had felt awfully empty without her in it.

There was no telling what would happen when they eventually reached Cottonwood Cove, or whether Lola would even be alive when they got there. A stupid thing to say. The broad had dragged herself out of a shallow grave, she wouldn’t be bested by the Legion, or at least that was what he hoped.

Glancing down at Maria’s pearl grip, he turned the pistol over in his hands. He wasn’t ready for this; none of them were. Once they were clear of The Strip, they would be out in the wilds again, a place he’d never planned to return, not once he held Vegas in the palm of his hand.

That prospect was starting to look very far off, now.


	10. Caesar Must Die!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lola faces another day of punishment and degradation at the hand of the Legion, but Benny might just have other plans ...

Blood trickled down her chin, slick, rolling off her face and dribbling to the ground. Her cheeks were caked with dust where they’d held her in the dirt, one after the other, kneeling on her ribs, pinning her arms above her head; anything to make sure she couldn’t move an inch whilst they were having their way with her. If she didn’t scream loud enough, they’d offer a swift kick to her nearest extremity, forcing her to cry out in pain.

She was of no value to them. Lola had at least thought Caesar would stay her execution until she had been forced to bear a child or two … she caught herself. This was impossible, she would never bear a child, but perhaps until they’d had unwavering proof that she was barren. Instead, Caesar had sentenced her to death just by breathing the words, confined to his bed, and now his Legion could subject her to whatever they wanted before they strung her up on a cross.

After the assault in Caesar’s tent, Lola had forced herself to keep walking, though the Legionaries that flanked her provided forceful encouragement. She had stumbled, but refused to land in the dirt, even as they flung her back inside her cage, ready for it all to begin again the following day. She’d marked a twelfth line on the ground and curled up, shivering, bleeding, another sleepless night, then another.

She clenched her teeth as the nameless Decanus dragged her towards him by her ankles, rock and stone digging into her flesh, cutting her open. He parted her legs roughly, forcing himself in without warning; Lola bit down hard on her bottom lip, braced against it, her eye instantly drawn to something metallic, glinting as it hung about his waist. If she could just free herself enough to reach it …

He pinned her arm forcefully to her side the moment she tried to move, increasing his speed as he did so. He hadn’t even bothered to remove most of his armor so Lola couldn’t see his face, obscured by the helmet he wore; she imagined finding success in unsheathing his weapon and thrusting it through his skull, gasped as the thought came to her, deliberately losing herself in the fantasy.

Something split the air. The shattering sound of gunfire, bursting out, faint enough to be distant. Probably just a training exercise.

Above her, he grunted with each thrust. It was always like this – she’d probably fabricated the gunfire, a way of distracting herself until it was over. It crackled in the air again, closer this time, and with it voices, calling out commands. It wasn’t enough to tear the Decanus away from the job at hand, however, and he kept on, as though his intention was to cleave her in two before he was done.

The third burst came even closer and this time and he looked away, giving pause long enough to grant her an opportunity: her hand shot out, reaching for the handle of the machete strapped to his waist, pulling it out and thrusting it through his neck without pausing. Blood sprayed out across her face as he collapsed on top of her and she heaved at his corpse just enough to negotiate her escape. She heard the familiar crack of a rifle shot as it pierced the sky, a sound she’d trained her ears on over the past few months wandering back and forth across the desert.

Perhaps her body had given out. Perhaps none of it was real and she’d simply sunk into a fever dream, but then why did her limbs still ache? Why was she so sore? More shots fired.

“You look like you’ve been put through the ringer a few times, pussycat,” his checkered jacket was crumpled, hair falling into his face. “Real band of scrappers you got rallied around you, doll,” she barely had time to register his presence as he shrugged off his jacket and threw it around her naked shoulders before taking her hand. It wasn’t hope that filled the gaping hole left inside her after the continued assaults of the Legion, but instead something that fluttered, left her with loose ends and no answers. She couldn’t even wrap her lips around the words she needed to ask the right questions, so instead she allowed him to pull her from the tent, hurriedly placing a cast-off submachine gun in her free hand.

“Let’s take a look at that before things get serious around here,” she heard Veronica before she saw her, felt lithe hands at the collar around her neck. Lola closed her eyes tightly, expecting what came next, but instead all she heard was a dull, metallic click, the collar slithering to the ground. She found herself able to breathe again. “The whole slave collar chic look isn’t really your thing,” before Lola had a chance to even thank her, the scribe was gone.

She made out the brief flash of a red beret: Boone. He truly was the last thing they’d never see, cutting through swathes of armored men with deadly accuracy, one shot between the eyes – this was all he needed. She didn’t have time to focus on the path he was carving for long as a man in crimson charged at them; without thinking, she discharged the gun, bullets flying towards him. Too quick a death for what they’d done to her. She wanted to see the Legion suffer.

Lola’s limbs shook violently as Benny guided her through the carnage but why? Why had he come for her, knowing how badly their last encounter with the Legion had ended?

“What …” blood dripped into her mouth as she opened it to talk. Benny shook his head, pulling her along with him, rocks jabbing at her feet, leaving small, pink lacerations, but it was nothing compared to what she’d been put through over the past fourteen days. Fourteen lines drawn in the dirt inside her cage. Two weeks. Lola barely had time to take in the carnage happening around her, secretly pleased that so much of it had been caused by those she considered close to her. Lily screamed past, the swift whoosh and thwack of a Nightkin-sized sledgehammer cutting down those who dared oppose her.

“Thought the cavalry would never come, huh, honey baby?” she couldn’t explain it. Hope wasn’t hers to cling to; if she’d dared to hope someone would save her, she wouldn’t have survived.

“How’d you know?”

“Hush up for now, pussycat, hey? We’ll jaw about this later,” how were they doing it? She’d thought the Legion more formidable, like she’d need an army before facing them again. The prospect of rescue had seemed impossible, a suicide mission.

They stumbled through the camp, slaves cast off in odd directions, the dead and the wounded scattered, slumped, the sky turning orange once again. She tried to examine them as they passed, to see if they were the ones responsible for causing her so much pain over the past two weeks, but it was impossible; panic and adrenaline made her blind, the world fading out around her. She couldn’t even tell whether she was running or walking or barely existing, swept along, willing herself not to collapse, not right now.

 _Not right now_. Machine gun fire turned thunder, bullets mowing them down where they stood, where they charged, but time was passing differently, slowing down, Legionaries scattering – were they retreating? Lola’s eyes caught sight of the tent rising up on the hill again, expecting to see Caesar, charging like he had charged at them before, but instead, the crimson draped entrance flaps fluttered, someone more familiar than the irascible warlord emerging. Arcade? His gun was trained, but he no longer had anyone to train it on. She whirled about in search of the next threat, expecting danger, but nobody came at them. They were coursing towards the drawbridge, ready to make their escape – had they really just cut off the head of the serpent? Shouldn’t the Legion have been trying harder to kill them?

“Baby, we’ve caused one hell of a scene. I’m thinking we should split,” still, she kept her fingers wrapped tightly around the barrel of the submachine gun. Lola tried to pick out familiar faces as they swarmed towards the same point; Cass, Rex, even ED-E. This rag-tag band of outcasts had come all the way out from Vegas for her. Did they really buy what she’d been selling them all this time?

“You came for me,” they all had. “But what about Caesar?” it was a question she didn’t really need an answer to, but she asked it because she had to hear the words aloud.

“Last I saw, the cat with the glasses and sharp tongue—”

“You mean Arcade?”

“Right, he was on it,” she briefly wondered what Boone had had to say about that, but noted that his thirst for Legion blood had been almost entirely quenched; judging by the amount of corpses wide-eyed in shock, face up and bearing a single bullet wound, he’d had his fill for now.

Arcade … not the bloodthirsty type in the slightest, he’d even agreed to stay in Freeside when things eventually started moving, not that she’d done much to dissuade him. As he made his way down the slope that led away from Caesar’s tent, pulse gun still trained on any errant Legionaries that might come his way, she wondered if he had been successful, or whether he had simply managed to subdue the Legion’s leader.

“Doll, we should make tracks,” all part of the plan. They were close, now, weaving their way through tents and bodies, everything dragging, spinning. She was tired. She hadn’t slept for more than a few hours at a time in two weeks. She let Benny wrap his arm around her, not caring for what the gesture looked like, down a dusty path cut into the ground and towards the river. She had to let it be, for the first time trusting in others instead of expecting them to blindly place their trust in her.

* * *

They’d helped her into some of her old fatigues, anything she’d had with her when the Legion had taken her gone, now. Lola hadn’t registered where they’d set up their camp after that, walking for longer than she thought her legs could carry her. She negotiated each step gingerly, craving Med-X but grateful nonetheless for the Stimpaks Arcade had thought to bring in order to treat her wounds; something he couldn’t leave to chance, he’d said.

From inside the shack, it was impossible to tell how long had passed but she knew she’d slept, perhaps for longer than she’d rested in a while. All of them, cramped inside this tiny shack, pressed up against the lockers that lined the far wall, Lily filling the corner, floor to ceiling. Waiting. Had they been waiting for her to wake up?

“So, what exactly happened inside the big guy’s tent?” Veronica and Arcade, locked in hushed conversation.

“Believe it or not, Caesar was on his own. Seemed like his guard was a little … distracted,”

“I’ll bet,”

“He was bed-bound, didn’t even move when he saw me. It’s amazing what knowing a little Latin can do, though, it seems like he was being treated for a brain tumor,” Lola heard Veronica’s audible gasp, and as she scanned the shack with her eyes half-closed she noticed there were others hanging onto the conversation. Benny, perched on the edge of the bed where she was curled, leaned in, knowing what came next. She didn’t mistake the furtive glance Arcade threw his way for anything other than suspicion, and it seemed the conversation was going to end there.

No light flooded in as the door creaked open, Raul entering quietly, his eyes downcast. He kept mostly to himself, watching rather than talking, even though she knew he had stories to tell. Night. If there was ever a time to leave, it was now, under the cover of night.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I didn’t think you all were ever going to show up,” the wounds on her back seared as she sat up.

“Well, what’d you expect us to do?” Cass, this time. She leaned heavily on one knee, hunting rifle strapped to her back, uncomfortable. She kept glancing over at Benny with her eyes narrowed – this wasn’t surprising, she’d never exactly held her tongue when it came to voicing her distaste for him.

“How did you figure I was at the Fort?”

“More of a lucky guess than anything, doll,” the Legion could have dragged her further East, after all, but what was the point in that? They wanted their revenge to take place under the watchful eye of Caesar, after all. Caesar … that meant …

“What about the Chip?” the words rushed out of her mouth before she could stop them. She glanced over at Arcade, who offered a slow nod though didn’t hold the Chip up, still trying to keep it concealed from Benny. None of her companions were stupid. They knew there was more to her relationship with Benny than she’d been willing to let on, though even she wasn’t sure exactly what the nature of it was. Mutual discomfort, maybe. Reliance on one another. Necessity, survival, there were many names for it.

“So, the bastard’s dead, is he?” Boone muttered, without really needing an answer. Was he disappointed? If Lola had had her way, she would have made sure Boone was the one to put a bullet in Caesar’s skull, but it wasn’t meant to be.

“I’d say so,” every time she moved, pain shot through one of her limbs. Eventually, she’d take the time to study herself in one of the Lucky 38’s cracked and spotted mirrors, inspecting her skin for bruises blossoming beneath it, for lacerations and the bite marks she knew were slowly healing. For lasting scars, reminders. The thing about physical scars, though, was that they faded after some time and didn’t invade her dreams.

“We should start moving, then,” muttered confusion and agreement. She didn’t have the time to try and plead her case to them. “We’re still close to Legion territory and it won’t be long before word gets out. We need to get back to The Strip before the Frumentarii start looking for us,” this was all it took. She hauled herself to her feet, groaning, briefly wondering if any of the lockers and boxes scattered around the shack contained any Med-X but she forced the thought from her mind. She felt cold metal in her hand as Benny passed her the submachine gun – a decent enough gesture, but she couldn’t wait to get back to Vegas and start feeling like herself again.


	11. Quins and Jokers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lola and Benny reunite in his suite once more, both of them changed in different ways. Adult content in this chapter.

It wasn’t love that they shared. Not by a long shot. Benny loved cold, hard cash and he loved power, but he didn’t love the broad that was slowly stripping down to nothing in his suite. He loved Vegas. He loved the things she did to him, but he didn’t love her, not even as she let her underwear fall to the floor.

As she stripped, this time, he winced. He’d had no call to do it before, but now, he could see the gashes laced up and down her back, puncture marks on her shoulders and thighs where she’d been bitten and the dark blue-black bruises blooming around them. Her lips were too swollen for him to want to kiss her, one of her eyes was ringed purple, and there were needle marks neatly patterned up and down her inner arms where she’d injected herself with a combination of Stimpaks and Med-X. Her brown eyes were glassy because of it, now; that, and the alcohol she’d downed, empty shot glasses littering the lounge.

She showed no sign of stopping so instead, Benny loosened his black tie and let her hands clamor for the buttons on his shirt. As he sat there, sprawled out on the sofa, he allowed her to leave a trail of fluttering kisses down the side of his neck, going lower – _her turn_ as she’d told him when they’d finally made it back to The Strip. She unfastened his belt without much ceremony, and he felt a groan leave his lips as she took him into her mouth.

Something in those eyes had pleaded with him, silently imploring him to _just go along with it_. What was her plan? He’d thought he might have to coax her out of herself when they got back, but instead she was the one leading and he suspected she was doing so out of much more than a sense of duty. Already, he’d watched her stand in front of a spotted mirror, guiding a pair of scissors up; she’d sheared off inches of blonde hair until it barely reached past her jaw.

Benny let another groan out. Damn, she knew what she was doing, though he tried not to think about all the other times she must have done it, or of all the different guys she must have done it with. It didn’t matter, not when he had her here, like this; sucking, drawing him in, leaving him shuddering. Even as she rose up until her face was level with his, fading in and out of reality, her gaze slack and a smirk etched on her lips, nothing else mattered.

“Come on, Ben-Man,” she whispered, turning away from him as if to lead him towards the bedroom, but Benny couldn’t help himself; as she hovered, daring him to take a step closer, he was upon her, gently easing her backwards until she was pressed up against the wall.

“You ready for this, doll?” under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have given her much warning, though these were anything but normal circumstances. Closing her eyes, she nodded, wrapping her legs around his waist, waiting for him to begin, though as he penetrated her, he noticed the way she frowned. Still, she pulled him in closer, forcing out faint moans, acting, doing her best to seem unfettered even if something was bothering her; he’d already tried going easy but she’d desperately urged him on, rushing as though she thought she might lose the will to sleep with him if they didn’t get to it quickly. As he thrust, he watched for pained expressions, or any signal requesting that they pick things back up another night, and sure enough, before long, she was shaking her head. He obliged.

“Why’d you do it?”

“Do what, pussycat?” she frowned again, unfurling her legs though still tantalizingly close.

“Why’d you tag along to that little rescue effort back at the Fort?” hadn’t she got the hint that he _was_ the rescue effort? He’d rallied her pals, not the other way around. If this was really all she thought of him, maybe it would have to be enough just to prove her right.

“Baby, I ain’t a complete loser. And besides,” he pressed himself just a little closer to her. “You scratched my back, I scratched yours. Now, we’re even,” now, she didn’t have anything on him, even though it wasn’t that. It wasn’t that at all.

“Should’ve figured you knew you’d be gaining something from it,” she spat the words at him, disappointment etched on her bruised face. He’d seen her fearful and he’d seen her determined, but he’d never seen her hurt. She glared at him, but she didn’t twist or coil away, still trapped between him and the wall.

“Don’t act so surprised, doll, you know how this scene works,” after all, it wasn’t as though she hadn’t had her own stake in his survival. They needed each other, but exactly who would be all used up once the ball started rolling remained to be seen.

“More fool me for thinking you’d decided to do something decent, then,” she could play a part well; ever the wounded damsel in distress, even though he knew she was anything but. It was a real shame. Pre-War she’d have been quite the actress, commanding the screen or the stage.

“You thought I’d take pity on you, baby? Doll, you’re no mouse and hey, I know where I’ll be standing when you’ve eventually got this all figured out,” he watched her carefully as she started to come undone, brown eyes widening, never breaking contact with his. He’d landed her with a revelation; he knew she was using him to get what she wanted.

“I don’t get it,” she shook her head, white blonde strands falling into her face. Before she’d cut it, Benny had watched her wash it carefully and brush it out in the places where it had been matted, breaking through the dust and blood to become herself again. “You shoot me, then you sweet-talk me when I track your ass down – I had every intention of killing you in your sleep, by the way – and then, the fact you were still alive in the morning wasn’t enough for you so you went and got yourself caught by the Legion. And I tracked you down again and saved your ass, but you still don’t trust me, do you?” she was actually starting to look truly hurt by the suggestion, no longer playing him; Benny knew he could talk her into bed just as well as she could persuade him, but he didn’t know if he could talk her round, this time.

Trust. He let the word roll around inside his head for a moment, trying to apply it to their rather unusual situation, but it just didn’t want to stick. It wasn’t trust that they needed and besides, how could she expect him to trust her when she wouldn’t offer him the same courtesy?

“Damn, doll, and I took you for a smart broad,” at this, she raised an eyebrow questioningly. “This whole scene with House? I’ve been working around the clock for months trying to figure out some way into the Lucky 38. You showing up was just good fortune, baby, the odds were in my favor, but I’m no pretender. The Legion could have killed you back there – I didn’t risk my neck just because I need you for some part in this plan. You’re just the cherry on top,” as he said it, his hand slowly and deliberately brushed across the soft folds of flesh between her legs. She looked part way between being insulted and relieved, and he knew he had her; smooth talking was his bag, and just like she had her body to rely upon, he had words. She wrapped her arms around him again, pulling him in closer, her mouth trying to find his. It was a kind of desperation all its own, a kind of pleading, relying on him to push into her, to support her as she brought her legs up, whispering pleas.

“All this, and we barely know each other,” he moved forwards, her voice changing as she said this. She lifted somehow, easing back into the woman he was familiar with, sure and determined, like the thought of it made the whole encounter easier on her. She wasn’t exactly the type to commit to anything.

Still, when she was moaning, everything else fell away. She dug her nails into the flesh on his back, something she did so often in the throes of sex that he’d come to expect it. After a while, he withdrew and allowed her to lead him through to the bedroom, pushing him down just like she had done the first time. So much had changed since then. They’d changed. And yet, as she climbed on top of him, it was as though nothing had changed between them at all; everything was blurred, the Legion, her apparent fragility, the scars and wounds and miles and miles of desert between them.

She leaned in close and he traced kisses across her collarbones and down, across her breasts that he’d always seemed so appreciative of. She gasped at exactly the right intervals, as though she’d been trained to do it, bucking her hips, letting his hands find flesh and touch wherever they wanted.

“Don’t stop,” she muttered close to his ear, keeping pace. He wasn’t planning on it. The woman confused him at times and frustrated him at others but this, here, this was what she was good at.

She arched her back, coaxing him, not caring how it ended. She never did, and nothing had ever come of it, either; another thing about her that didn’t make sense, though far too personal for him to question. It wasn’t as though they were planning a future together or anything – just a complete power play. Vegas in the palm of their hands.

 _Their_.

He was kidding himself, thinking any part of this was ‘they,’ no matter what she’d said before. She writhed on top of him, as though any part of this was a partnership, as though they wouldn’t always be playing each other, one of them trying to gain the upper hand. He groaned as he ejaculated, prompting her to roll off him, fingers brushing lightly against flesh, another stalemate.

Before long, she’d drifted into the kind of fitful sleep he was familiar with. Her expression flitted between unreadable and nothing short of troubled; he’d never paid much attention before, but quickly found himself wondering what she must be reliving every time she slept. She never talked much about her past, at least not to him. As far as Benny was concerned, she’d come into the world a Courier, a warrior, it was impossible to imagine her having a childhood, or parents. Short-sighted, he guessed. Even the prostitutes at Gomorrah were daughters, maybe sisters – they’d been young enough once that someone had felt the need to care for them, nurture them. He couldn’t remember much about being a kid himself, had willingly let the memory dissolve into nothing, just like he’d let the memory of the Boot Riders, the tribal days melt away; there was no going back, no fondness for the days spent barely surviving.

In sleep, she whispered soft breaths across his cheek, lost in a different kind of reality to the one they existed in. He watched her when he couldn’t relax his body enough to drift off himself. She was fire. She was survival. But as she lay there beside him, she was small, vulnerable.

Sooner or later, one of them would have to fold. It couldn’t always be like this.


	12. Lost Girls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In sleep, Lola revisits a memory from her past left long buried.

_The room was cold cinderblock, grey, unforgiving. She had a top bunk because she was older than most of the other girls, but Lola couldn’t sleep as she lay in her bed, staring up at the ceiling. She was fourteen, now, but since her thirteenth birthday she’d been Paired unsuccessfully with no less than six males; tomorrow, she’d be called in front of the Council to answer for her failures._

_Collectively, the girls of the Society – and they were always girls – were expected to start Siring when they were thirteen years old. A girl’s thirteenth birthday was hardly a cause for celebration; she’d be led through a series of confusing corridors, no doubt designed to negate the possibility of escape, and into a room where she would meet her Partner for the first time. A Partner could be a boy barely older than she was, or he could be much older, and already been Paired multiple times. There were different rules for boys._

_Lola counted back the days to her own birthday, a date that had been set not by her birth but rather as the anniversary of the day her parents left her with the Society. Abandoned children were not uncommon, and the Society always took them in without question._

_Two weeks after each Siring, girls were tested to see if the event had been a success. Siring was necessitated by four to five days spent with her Partner, and throughout the remainder of the month, the two would never meet. Girls and boys were kept separately, schooled in their free time; Lola didn’t know what the boys learned, but she had seen more slides about the wonders of motherhood than she cared to count._

_This was where the problems had started, really. From one month to the next, Lola’s Siring date changed, and she knew that the Elders grew frustrated with it. It had grown more and more unpredictable, and with no child to show for it, the only suitable course of action had been to haul her in front of the Council of Elders._

_Cold in her bed, beneath sparse sheets, Lola shivered, though she wasn’t so sure it had anything to do with the temperature of the room._

* * *

_“Your name,”_

_“Lola Adams,” she had to remind herself that the Council she was standing in front of had once been in her position. Shoulder to shoulder, they sat with expressionless faces, holding back any suggestion of sympathy or anger. She didn’t know which it would be when the time came._

_“You’ve been called here today because of your failure to Sire,” they didn’t need to remind her._

_“Yes,” it wasn’t a question, but she’d felt inclined to respond all the same._

_“Do you have any explanation?” they were asking her? How was she supposed to know, she was no doctor. Faced with the question, Lola’s insides writhed and turned to dust; the only explanation was that she was a desert, a lake turned dry._

_“I’m sorry, I don’t,” her face felt hot, her cheeks turning pink as she said it, apologizing for something she had no control over._

_“You are one of the Abandoned, correct?” hearing it spoken aloud stung. Abandoned, unwanted; her parents hadn’t even cared enough to keep her and at that moment, she envied the Orphans, whose parents usually had no choice in the matter. They’d been wanted; they were just a different kind of unlucky._

_“Correct,” she bowed her head slightly in mock contrition._

_“It’s likely your condition is a form of mutation, then,” on what basis? Lola looked up, watching as the Elder in the center shuffled a pile of dog-eared papers that she hadn’t noticed when she’d first come in. “I have a report here from Doctor Alva who you’ve visited weekly over the past year, correct?”_

_“Correct,” even the eldest among them could be no more than forty, though she knew Elder Rostrum was much older. He never attended meetings, no matter the cause. It was only then that Lola noticed there were no female Elders among them, or that she’d never seen a female Elder that she could recall. Why was that?_

_“I’ll read from the report,” the Elder questioning her heaved a deep sigh and shuffled the papers again; she hadn’t seen him, though often the girls only saw the Elders responsible for teaching, feeding and corralling them. “The Subject displays signs of erratic menstrual cycles, some excessive – up to fourteen days – in length. Blood loss during this period remains concerning with the Subject being confined to the Medical Bay for the duration. Some are much shorter, barely lasting two days and mostly unnoticeable. These cycles render charting an accurate Siring date almost impossible, necessitating a change in Partners, often at late notice, to give the Subject even a small chance at Siring. All Siring attempts have been unsuccessful,” Lola winced at this: unsuccessful roughly translated to useless. “The Subject often complains of feelings of extreme heat, evidenced by reddening skin and sweating that presents at random intervals. The Subject experiences infrequent palpitations coupled with despondency not intrinsically linked to the length of her cycles,”_

_Cold and clinical. She’d thought better of Doctor Alva, but he’d just been studying her, reporting on the symptoms she’d confided in him about. Sometimes, the heat was unbearable, like her skin was on fire but it would go as quickly as it came. Other times, the heat lasted for hours. She bled and she ached, just like the other girls complained of, but she never knew when this was going to happen._

_“Do you agree with Doctor Alva’s assessment?” what else could she do?_

_“I do,” Lola nodded, not knowing what came next. Useless. Without value. Dried up. They were bound to cast her out into the world outside the Society, where she’d be finished off either by a raiding gang on cannibals, or one of the other horrors she’d only heard stories about. Tales of wasteland ghosts; huddled in their bunks, bored and desperate for something to do to entertain themselves, the girls would tell stories about the most horrific things they could imagine, the youngers clutching tightly onto matted teddy bears, hugging their knees close to their chests. The older girls always told the best, if most terrifying stories. Faceless men, people who still walked with their flesh hanging off their bones; hulking creatures with claws that could slice a man in half with a single swipe._

_“Doctor Alva also noted that he thinks you’ll never Sire successfully. Do you believe this, too?” Lola bowed her head again, tears stinging hot at the corners of her eyes. Lie and fail for another few years, tests and needles, sitting as a subject while Alva wrote more notes about a condition neither of them fully understood. Tell the truth, and she was facing a deadly unknown. She took in hot gulps of air, salty tears streaming down her face as her limbs shook, fear wrapping itself around her, clutching, making it hard to breathe._

_“Please … I can be of use,”_

_“Doing what, exactly?” was he sneering? Lola choked back more tears as she listened, their voices intermingling, low conversation though they were all inclined to do the same. She didn’t know how she could be of use to them, without any discernible talents, no aptitude for anything useful. This was it. They were going to cast her out._

_“It’s not my fault,” she sobbed weakly, knowing it would do her no good. A decision had been made._

_It occurred to Lola that perhaps the reason she never saw any female Elders was because they’d all been cast out in the same way once they were no longer of any use to the Society. Maybe it was worse. Girls who fell pregnant were whisked away some four months along without complications but were always complaining about the ways in which their bodies were stretching, changing. They’d return more than a year on for the process to begin again, never talking about their experiences, only about a place known as The Nursery and how they were never going to see their child again. Maybe the female Elders couldn’t take living with that._

_Maybe some of them couldn’t survive the repeated process of bearing children, giving birth, Siring, over and over again. None of the girls sharing bunks were ever any older than twenty._

_“Our decision is made,” Lola breathed in deeply, convincing herself this wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to her. She braced for it, thinking about all the girls who disappeared without warning, used up before they’d even really had a chance to live. She didn’t plead as she was led away, not even allowed to return for the few belongings she had; not even allowed to say goodbye to the girls she’d grown up with._

_She’d never be able to remember the paths they led her down, through doors, holding her tightly inside an elevator that rose or fell, she wasn’t sure which. Pistons hissed against cold metal as the doors opened, until they reached their destination: a control panel stood in front of a giant cog-shaped door. One of them let go, anticipating that she would not bother to fight against them so far into her journey. She hadn’t exactly made her peace with what was coming, but she settled into an uneasy acceptance that she was leaving the Society behind, and that perhaps this would mean survival._

_Ridiculous. She was fourteen years old, had never even seen a gun let alone handled one. Release was as good as an execution. More hissing, and then the gigantic metal door groaned as it heaved and rolled open, aided by a robotic arm suspended above. It really was something; she didn’t know if the Society had been here since before the war or not, but the world had been different then, they’d burrowed and made mazes underground, sheltered away from whatever was on the surface. The Elders on either side continued to push her towards the dirt slope that led steeply upwards until they reached a rickety door that swung open to reveal hazy grey light._

_“This is where we leave you,” one muttered as he let go of her arms, leaving Lola to stumble out into the world above, chemical scents stinging at her nostrils, the light blinding, causing her head to feel as though it was about to split in two. She gasped for air, but it was thick, she wasn’t used to breathing it, and even as she staggered out, the door snapping shut behind her, she knew she wouldn’t make it far._

_Above her, a hand reached out, though the man it belonged to was no more than a silhouette. She took it, feeling the warmth of his palm wrap around her, firmly trying to pull her to her feet, although when she wouldn’t move, he instead gathered her up in his arms._

_“What do they do down there, starve you girls?” his voice was gentle as he began to carry her away. Raider, maybe. Perhaps he was going to eat her._

_It didn’t matter. All she knew was that there must have been others._

**Author's Note:**

> I'll try and keep this brief: I first uploaded 'It's a Sin to Tell a Lie' to Fanfiction.net all the way back in 2011. At the time, what I _thought_ I was writing was a Female Courier x Benny romance, because I found the Black Widow option of dealing with him interesting, especially in terms of what it might mean for those two characters. I thought that relationship was quite intriguing. What I actually ended up doing was exploring some of the worst things that have happened to me over the years in a 'safe' setting - specifically, that of a video game I was enjoying immensely at the time. This isn't an excuse for the 'rape as backstory' that will eventually feature in this work, and 2020 is a different place in fiction than 2011 was (and rightly so,) but it is something that is tied deeply into Lola's ongoing motivations. The woman survived being shot in the head for goodness' sake - and on rewriting, I realized that I really wanted that continuing theme of survival to feature far more heavily than it did the first time around, including survival in the face of something that, at the time, seems impossible to survive.
> 
> So, I hope you enjoy 'It's a Sin to Tell a Lie' in all its rewritten glory. I dug this back up originally because of a review left 7 years after I finished writing it, and it really served to remind me about what I always loved about writing in the first place. :)


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